His Best Friend's Closet
by fourleggedfish
Summary: Written for Wilson Fest at LJ for the prompt: Wilson happens upon a porn tape starring college!House. EXPLICIT SLASH/NC-17 - don't like, don't read.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** His Best Friend's Closet  
**Author: **FourLeggedFish  
**Prompt: **For Wilson_Fest, Round 3, prompt 20 over on LiveJournal - Wilson happens upon a porn tape starring college!House  
**Rating: **NC-17...obviously :P  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** House/Crandall/OFC, then HOUSE/WILSON!  
**Warnings:** Threesome, hawtness, no real spoilers I think  
**Disclaimer:** I am the Empress of Everything, but I still don't own House & Co. Darn it!  
**Summary:** The unreported side effects of eating week-old shrimp tempura.  
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Wilson woke up freezing, half lost until he remembered that he had fallen asleep on House's couch. A quick glance at the DVD player confirmed that it was way too early to actually be up, barely two in the morning, but at least he no longer felt like he might puke up his intestines without a moment's notice. Stupid leftover Chinese food. He should have known better. At least House had eaten most of the squicky shrimp tempura, though that was only because Wilson hadn't been able to stop him from sticking his chopsticks in Wilson's carton a dozen times. Served him right.

House had retired long before Wilson to nurse his rebellious stomach in private with a trash can and a bottle of Pepto Bismol, so Wilson didn't have a blanket spread haphazardly over him. It didn't quite hit him until that moment that House usually lasted longer than Wilson did, and for some reason, he always tucked Wilson in without it seeming as if he had done so. Wilson smiled to himself as he sat up and tested his resilience to unexpected movements. His tummy stayed where it belonged, so he lumbered to his feet and felt his way through the dark to the closet where House kept the couch pillow and blanket.

The closet was a mess, as usual; evidently, Lady was no longer coming over to clean the place, or if she was, the closets were just too much for her to handle on top of the rest of the chaos that House flung around the apartment. When some exploratory groping didn't yield a hint of anything pillow-like, Wilson clicked on the desk lamp so that he could see what the hell he was doing. He spied the blanket stuffed up in a corner of the shelf above the coat rack, a corner of the pillow peeking out from within the soft white fold like House had bundled the pillow up in the blanket and then just crammed in all in there by brute force. Wilson grabbed an end and tugged, and when the bedding popped out, a rain of clutter followed in its wake.

"Dammit!" Wilson leapt back just in case anything dangerous fell out, the blanket trailing out of one hand and the pillow caught up on the floor. The resultant pile of detritus looked like nothing more than old photos and keepsakes which had spilled from a ratty old box on the shelf. House keeping mementos…well. The man _was_ a packrat. His collection of old belongings and remembrances, while a sign of fondness or nostalgia in a normal person, was probably just another indication of neurosis in House, perhaps a compensation for having moved and shed belongings so often as a child.

Wilson scowled to himself and knelt down to gather everything up when some of the objects caught his eye. They were yearbooks, House's college yearbooks. Or, more accurately, bound collections of college fare like pictures and such – a high class scrapbook. Someone must have made it for him, because there was no way Gregory House would sit down with an album, squiggly scissors, construction paper and a glue stick. Stacy, maybe; trying to bring order to the mess of photos, articles and clippings piled in the flimsy, age-softened cardboard box. Wilson had seen most of the photos inside at one point or another, but there was a VHS tape mixed in with all of the loose pictures and pages. Wilson turned it over to see if it had a label, and indeed it was marked as simply _GH DC project_.

It was probably a video of House, and he guessed Crandall, being idiots in grad school, perhaps messing around with that band that House had once accidentally mentioned. Or maybe it was a project for one of their classes. Either way, it left Wilson curious. House hardly ever talked about college, except to boast over his one night stand with the nubile undergrad version of Lisa Cuddy. Seriously – House embellished that tale more and more as they got older. Last time he told it, he cast Cuddy as an impoverished college student moonlighting as a call girl for a Disney costume-themed agency. Actually, the thought was pretty hot in a demented, sick sort of way.

Wilson smirked at the dark interior of the closet at the mental image of a barely-legal Lisa Cuddy dressed up like Lady the cocker spaniel, star struck over the imitable Gregory House, legendary grad student extraordinaire. Honestly, though...he had heard from so many sources now that House had been some sort of a legend long before graduating med school that he wondered what, exactly, House had been like to obtain such a reputation. House seemed to hate recognition like that, and he openly scoffed at the notion of idols and looking up to people. The dates on the journal articles in the box hinted at plain old brilliance, though; Wilson hadn't realized that House once published so often, and a few of the clippings named him as first author during what had to be his junior year as an undergrad. Either that, or House blew through his first degree in less than three years.

Wilson set the tape aside with the bedding and finished cleaning up the mess before he quietly shut the closet door. Then he snuck down the hall and poked his head into House's bedroom, just to make sure that the ruckus hadn't woken him. House was curled peacefully around a stack of pillows and a faint hint of vomit tinged the air, mingled with dirty laundry and House's own somewhat peculiar scent. He must have fallen asleep before all the abdominal cramps subsided, but at least he hadn't puked on himself. The odor must have been coming from the trash can he had been using as an emesis basin. House seemed calm enough now. And dead to the world. Score.

Wilson pulled House's bedroom door all the way shut and then crept back to the living room, turning off all the lights as he went. It took some fumbling, but he knew the layout of House's apartment as well as his own, so he spent less than a minute setting up the video. He pulled the coffee table right up in front of the television and kept the volume on its lowest setting to minimize the risk of waking House and having his new treasure stolen away from him. He was going to mock House something fierce in the morning. A video project for school? This was gold. Wilson leaned in close to the television with the blanket wrapped over his shoulders, and hit play.

First, blackness and some of that digital static stuff that all old VHS tapes sport in the beginning. Then a room blinked onto the screen, fuzzy and slashing all over the frame. Wilson winced at the racket made by the inept cameraman, clicks and scrapes right next to the microphone, then jumped when a much younger version of House's face suddenly snapped onto the screen, sideways. His clean-shaven chin loomed large on the television, and then a cavernous nostril, complete with stray hairs, and finally his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth while he fiddled. Wilson snorted to hide a smile.

"_Dill hole," _House said._ "You're holding it crooked."_

The man behind the camera, probably Crandall, snapped, _"Then quit trying to play with the lens, jerk. And don't call me a dill hole."_

_"Then stop acting like one."_ House made a face over the lens and then the two of them squabbled for a second. Wilson dropped his face into his palm to stifle a laugh at finding that House had been an overbearing asshole even back then. _"Okay, okay,"_ House barked, backing away with his hands in the air. _"Do it your damn self. Just don't fuck it up."_

"_Turd Face." _

"_Nincompoop." _

The camera kept shifting until finally, everything went stock still. _"Okay," _Crandall said, his tone hesitant. _"I think it's ready."_

House backed farther into the room, bent over at the waist to peer intently at the camera. _"Is that thing already on?"_

Another head appeared right up in the lens, so close that Wilson could see the pimple in the crease of Crandall's nose. _"Oh. Um…doesn't matter." _Crandall turned to look at House, and Wilson was treated to a view of the back of Crandall's John Lennon shirt._ "Look, are you ready? Where's this girl you said you got?"_

"_I dunno. Said she'd be here." _House plopped down onto the bed on the other side of the room. Wilson scanned the rest of the shot and realized that it was a hotel room, not a dorm as he had first thought. Crandall wandered around the frame, arranging things like a child playing grownup in a board room, as if he knew what he was doing. House watched him with an air of disinterest, reaching up to scratch his cheek or stomach every now and then.

After a minute of this, Crandall came back to the camera and shut it off. A second elapsed, and then the television screen lit up again. There was a woman in the room now, a pretty co-ed from the looks of her. Wilson cocked his head to one side and raised an appreciative eyebrow. The girl was dressed to kill, and by kill, he meant razor-sharp stilettos on a street corner. And god, was she gorgeous – not your average hooker, if she _was_ a hooker; Wilson couldn't tell. Maybe that was the part she was here to play. Hooker. Which…made this a porno.

"Oh my god," Wilson mumbled. "House made a porno." The thought of House producing an amateur porno in college didn't actually surprise him all that much; it seemed like something he might do. Wilson should have turned it off, put the tape back where he found it, and never thought of it again. But the girl on screen was shedding her jacket to reveal a slinky little black dress that, while tasteful, still should have been illegal in the contiguous United States. Wilson moistened his lips and admired her for a moment. Dark brown hair, creamy white skin, legs up to her arm pits… She had to be nearly as tall as House. Wilson decided to watch for just a few more minutes. It couldn't hurt.

"_Okay, hey. Dill hole." _House was behind the camera now, and his fingers snapped outside of the picture. _"Put your tongue back in your mouth and get a move on. This tape only holds like sixty minutes of footage."_

Crandall looked at House with a silly ass grin on his face and gave the camera an enthusiastic thumbs-up. The guy looked like a complete dork. From the sound House made, Wilson imagined him rolling his eyes and calling Crandall a moron under his breath, but Wilson's attention had been eclipsed by the girl in the back corner of the frame. Wilson admired the shapely curve of her ass as she bent over to unzip a high heeled boot, god, at the perfect angle…he could almost see up the back of her criminally short, form-fitting dress. Wilson drew back abruptly when he realized he was gaping and in danger of getting drool on the television screen. Wow. Hell, if Crandall was the one acting in this thing, there was no harm in watching all of it. Wilson didn't know the guy, so it was like any other amateur porn film. Hopefully, House wouldn't get all controlling from his position as director, because the snark and sarcasm would really put a damper on the festivities. It occurred to Wilson to wonder why House might keep a film of his old roommate having sex with some girl, but hey. As he'd reflected while stuffing the contents of the closet back behind the door, House had turned into a packrat; he might not even know he still has it.

House's arm appeared in the corner of the screen. _"Hey. Are those Louboutin?"_

The girl grinned over her shoulder, eyelashes batting, ass wiggling in House's face from all the way across the hotel room. _"You said dress classy, Greg." _Off camera, House hrmphed in appreciation. Wilson just shook his head and tossed a fond smile over his shoulder, toward the bedroom. Only House would ignore a girl's deliciously curvy ass in favor of ogling her footwear.

Crandall turned back to the girl and craned his neck for a better view of her behind. She played her part by noticing his stare, smiling coyly over her shoulder, and then shifting her extremely attractive backside toward him while she slid her boots off, all performance and sex appeal. The fact that she would be doing this barefoot actually pleased Wilson. He winced whenever he watched a porno where the girl kept her stilettos on; all he could picture was one ill-thought, spontaneous flail of limbs, and the next thing anybody knew, some poor guy's balls would be skewered in the heat of passion. Just…shiver.

"_Crandall, move your fat ass over,"_ House snarked. _"You're blocking the shot."_

"Yeah," Wilson agreed. "Move."

Crandall glared past the camera but obediently moved toward the bed. The girl straightened up and turned around, then posed with her hands on her waist, one hip cocked. Classic, cliché sexy pose, but still…this girl pulled it off so well that Wilson couldn't possibly have found it cheesy. Trust House to pick them. The girl advanced on Crandall and ran her hands up his chest, from his navel to his shoulders, then down his arms. Crandall moved with her touch, a little awkward at first, and then they started kissing. It didn't look natural, though; every few seconds, Crandall would open one eye and glance at the camera, then make way too much of a show out of trying to angle them just so. It was distracting.

College-House read Wilson's mind. _"Quit looking at the damn camera. What the hell's wrong with you?"_

Crandall broke off and threw an arm up. _"Do you have any idea how hard this is?"_

House snorted and half of his torso appeared in the frame. _"Dude, at this rate, nothing is going to be hard. You're the one who wanted to do this. How difficult can it be to have sex?"_

"_It's on camera!"_ House must have made some rude gesture because Crandall flared his nostrils and snapped, _"Fine! If you think it's so easy to get it up in front of a camera, then come show me."_

"_You're fucking impossible." _House stomped out from behind the camera and poked Crandall out of the way, then peered at him over his shoulder to say, _"You make out with a woman"—_typical House-ish spread of a hand, mocking even in gesture_—"thus." _Then he proceeded to demonstrate.

Even on grainy, late-seventies film, Wilson could see House's tongue tracing the girl's bottom lip, could hear their breathing pick up, could tell when House suckled her tongue by the slight hollowing of his cheeks. The girl arched her back and leaned into him, one foot toeing the floor, her head tilted to allow him the best angle for access. She must have been just shy of six feet tall, even without the heeled boots, and she looked delicious stretched up along House's front, pushing her body harder against him as they made out. This went on for a full minute, until even Wilson felt a slight flush, and just as House broke away from her, Wilson heard the faint but unmistakable noise of disappointment that escaped House's lungs at having to leave off. The girl tried to follow his mouth before she fluttered her eyes back open, and then she licked her lips with a decidedly sultry air, savoring the taste of him.

House set her back on her feet – god, he'd nearly picked the girl up off the floor toward the end, he had been crushing her to him so fiercely – and then stepped back. He wiped off his mouth, glared at Crandall, and indicated the girl with a flourish. _"Now, does that look so hard?"_

Crandall crossed his arms and proclaimed, _"Ass." _

The girl shifted her shoulders coquettishly at House as he passed her to go back behind the camera. House smiled back at her, cocky and appraising, and Wilson almost wished that they would kick Crandall out and make the film themselves. Crandall wasn't nearly as sexy and self assured –

No. Wilson did not just think of House as sexy. That did not happen. Emphatically not. Hey, go Crandall! He was duplicating the make-out session. Cool. Wilson focused on that. He did not allow himself to note that it was markedly less hot than when House had done it. Nope. Not a chance. Cuticles…Wilson needed to moisturize more regularly; his fingers were dry and cracked. That would not do. Where was the VCR remote anyway? Eh, video. May as well watch some more if he couldn't turn it off.

It looked like the girl got bored with her new partner, and after a few minutes of inept smooching, she maneuvered Crandall backwards and toppled him onto the bed. Best to move on, Wilson figured. Behind the camera, House was probably yawning, or playing with rubber bands. Crandall scooted back and craned his mouth up to meet hers again as she crawled over him and straddled him, and then Wilson heard a loud, obnoxious groan from off screen.

"_Could you be any less of a turn-on?" _House demanded.

Crandall rolled his eyes and flopped back, and the girl sat up on his stomach, obviously more interested in House than in the man sprawled under her. She kept rolling her shoulders back so that her chest stuck out, alluring and sexy as hell, putting herself on display, her eyes fixed on the man behind the camera. It put Wilson in mind of a prowling kitten, except not harmless. _"You should probably show us again," _she teased.

House chuckled off frame and purred, _"You'd like that, wouldn't you. But no. I don't do cameras."_

Crandall propped himself up on his elbows at that, and Wilson sensed some sort of ploy in the works. He wasn't sure what gave it away, but he didn't find Crandall nearly as clumsy as he had seemed up until then. And the girl's flirtations were way too blatant. _"What, suddenly you're not interested in showing me up?"_ Crandall demanded. _"You? Greg House?"_

The girl climbed off the bed, careful not to do anything damaging to the oddly placed limbs she had to crawl over, then sashayed up to the camera. Her abdomen filled the screen, and then she tugged House into the shot by his shirt collar. _"I can't picture you as shy,"_ she remarked, casual and dripping seduction.

"_I'm not shy,"_ House protested just for form's sake. He reluctantly allowed the girl to lead him to the side of the bed, and then Wilson jumped back from the screen as Crandall lunged and dragged him down on the mattress.

Taken off guard, House's first instinct was to fight, but Crandall had the element of surprise. He got House in some kind of an upper body lock, like a wrestling move, his arms cinched under and around House's, pulling them back to immobilize him. House struggled for a second, furious by the looks of it, then froze when the girl laid her hand over his crotch. She started rubbing and House jerked in a random direction, his arms tensing in Crandall's grasp. _"Hey, not…not cool, you fucker!" _House gasped.

Wilson frowned, watching House fight to pull free, wondering what the hell this was. It soon became apparent that House was losing the impetus to stop his cohorts from essentially molesting him. His struggles turned into a sort of squirming, and then he stiffened, his head digging back into Crandall's chest. The girl had settled between his legs, her hand kneading and stroking him through his dark brown…were those corduroys? They looked exactly like a pair that House still owned. Whatever. Irrelevant.

Wilson watched House's legs tremble on either side of the girl, one foot planted firm on the mattress, his breathing rapid and shallow. Ever so slowly, House's upraised knee fell to the side and he flexed into the girl's hand. _"Mnghuh."_

The girl giggled. _"Like that, do you?"_

"_Whaderyoo doin'?" _House demanded, but his voice had weakened and gone up an octave, and when Wilson heard that, he stared wide-eyes at the television, shamelessly riveted to the scene in front of him. College-House wasn't exactly the most attractive guy – Wilson secretly thought that his looks had gotten better with age: less nerdy, more proportioned to the shape of his face – but he wasn't hard on the eyes either. It was just…_House_, this was _House_ getting fondled in front of him!

Crandall shifted his hold to splay House's arms wide where he couldn't do anything with them. _"We decided you needed this more than I do."_

"_Happy…hm…Bastille Day?" _The girl leaned up over House's stomach, affording him a clear view down the front of her dress. _"I think that'll work."_

House lowered his head and blinked at the sight, then suddenly clenched all over. It took Wilson a second to realize that the girl had tightened her grip over the obvious bulge in his trousers. She didn't let up until House writhed and whined something unintelligible and slightly ecstatic, his face buried in one of Crandall's arms. Then she loosened her fingers and rubbed apologetically, like soothing a booboo. House's hips twitched up and he panted for a moment, recovering enough wits to say, _"Bastille Day's in July."_

"_Quit nitpicking," _Crandall said. _"Just take it like the present it's supposed to be."_

"_Some present," _House replied, his voice strained and his eyes fixed on the girl kneeling between his legs. _"Since I paid for it."_

"_There you go again,"_ the girl cooed. _"Naughty boy. You're supposed to thank people when they give you something."_

House blinked at her, slow on the uptake, then twisted his neck to regard Crandall, who was watching over his shoulder. _"This is weird," _he mumbled.

Crandall snorted. _"Come on, G-Man, I've lived with you for two years. I know damn well nude girly magazines only make up half your porn stash."_

"_So I'm curious. Big deal. And I find it bothersome that you've been through my stuff."_

Crandall shrugged. _"You've been through mine. Isn't that one of those unspoken House Rules? We can snoop just as long as we don't bring it up in conversation?"_

House grunted at something the girl did to him, his eyelashes fluttering. She kept on doing her thing and House flexed his back, head tipped toward the ceiling. In spite of the blatant distraction between his legs, House managed to gather impetus enough to keep on arguing. Or trying to, at least. _"But…you're not…uh…oh fuck…"_

"_Relax. I'm just here to make sure you go through with it."_

House let out a rough groan, then his eyes snapped open. _"What the fuck does that mean?"_

"_It means you're a tease," _the girl answered for Crandall. _"All flirt, no action since you broke up with what's-her-name, the born-again vegan? And you really, really need some action."_

"_It's an intervention," _Crandall put in. _"Just one guy lookin' out for his buddy. You need this, man. You've been a cranky son of a bitch for two months, and I have to live with you."_

House made a valiant attempt to sneer, but he only barely made it past gruff and bleary. _"And you think sex will make me all warm and personable? You're an idiot."_

The girl just kept right on teasing him, verbally and physically. _"All that repression…nothing to play with but your own right hand – "_

_"Sometimes, I use my left."_

" – _it isn't healthy for a man. Sometimes…he just needs a little more...hm...personalized attention. Something to take his mind off things, to relax him before he snaps under the pressure. Heck, you know all about the dangers of that, being pre-med and all. Stress and blood pressure, nervous breakdowns…" _

"_You forgot gout."_ House blinked stupidly. _"And the hanta virus. All very bad things caused by prolonged bouts of blue balls. It still doesn't excuse whatever the hell you think you're going to do to me. On video. Which I didn't sign up for."_ He ruined the effect of his snark by inhaling sharply and then biting his lip, his breath rushing out to flare his nostrils.

The girl gave a devilish grin and rose up over House's body, planting one hand in the mattress so that she hovered less that an inch above him. _"If it makes you feel better, this is still a present for Dylan. You bought him a few weeks of a more relaxed you. You'll be more pleasant to deal with."_

House peered up at her, then convulsed with a low moan. Her hand was still latched between his thighs, and Wilson really, _really_ wished he knew what she was doing to him down there. He watched House's legs move, muscles contracting in a gradual wave from his stomach to his ankles, hips rolling up of their own accord, and then Wilson shook himself. Something was…off. Wilson tore his eyes from the television and found himself looking down at his own lap. Oh… No, this was not good.

Wilson lunged for the video player and jabbed the eject button. House's aroused, squirming body vanished from the screen and the room went pitch dark while Wilson freaked out a little bit. Crap, crap…crap. Wilson fumbled to pull the VHS tape from the player, and then he stood up with the insane notion of somehow disposing of it forever, along with any and all evidence that he had gotten an erection while watching somebody fondle _House_.

Wilson practically jumped out of his skin when he heard footsteps thumping around in House's bedroom, and for lack of any better hidey-hole, Wilson stumbled over to his briefcase and stuffed the tape in there. He could get rid of it in the morning, but at least for now, it was out of sight, and House would never know he'd found it. House's bedroom door creaked open just as Wilson dove back onto the couch, and since he couldn't fake sleep worth shit, he dragged the blanket over his lap and somehow jabbed enough buttons on the remote that the television switched onto an infomercial for some sort of magic expandable organizer purse. House would mock him for watching it, but there were worse thing to be caught staring at in the middle of the night while camped out on your best friend's couch.

House stumped into the living room and paused on the threshold. Wilson studiously avoided glancing over his shoulder, utterly convinced that his expression screamed, _You got me hard!_ As it was, he couldn't see how House could miss the fact that Wilson was sitting there, sporting a boner over an infomercial. Wilson folded the blanket and fluffed it over his lap in the hopes of concealing any untoward peaks.

"Hey, Wilson." House's voice sounded rough from sleep…which resembled the purr of his flirty voice on the video. Twenty years older and more gravelly, maybe, but the same. Oh god, Wilson was so dead. There was no way he could hide this.

Wilson waved over his shoulder, but he didn't trust himself to speak. To his everlasting gratitude, House didn't come sit next to him. Tripod footsteps carried him into the kitchen where he pulled something out of the fridge, probably a bottle of water, and then he disappeared back down the hall without another word. Wilson slumped on the sofa and smashed his hands over his face, sighing in silent relief. Now all he had to do was take care of the problem in his lap, throw the VHS tape into the incinerator at the hospital, and then he could consider himself rid of this entire incident.

Well. First things first. Wilson reached under the blanket and got down to business. And no, when he finally came, he was _not_ picturing House writhing on the television screen, nor was he mentally replaying the low moans he had heard less than five minutes ago. Absolutely not. Just…no.

--TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the next part. More on the way!

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Wilson was in the kitchen the next morning when House emerged from his cave, no doubt following the scent of Wilson's coffee and pancakes. Not the macadamia nut pancakes that House planned special ops missions to steal; the only nuts in the apartment were a can of honey roasted cashews best suited to beer and poker. No, these were plain pancakes, as far as Wilson could leave any food 'plain.' And now, even in his head, he was babbling like an idiot – like a guilty moron who had raided his best friend's homemade porn stash and then had _really_ graphic dreams about said best friend while nodding off on the couch with infomercials and gospel singers tittering about on the television. This was great. Just freaking great.

House shuffle-limped into the kitchen and paused in the doorway to look at Wilson. He really was some sort of Neanderthal in the mornings – hair askew, stubble a shade darker than normal, eyes squinting against the light, a tiny sneer tugging at one corner of his mouth, as if he intended to tell all of creation to fuck off for having the audacity to wake him. And he was clad only in sleep pants and an undershirt. Wilson's eyeballs stuttered in their sockets in an effort to remain north of House's waistline. Because House normally went commando under those, and Wilson had always known this (House had mooned him once just because he was drunk and Wilson dared him not to). But, see, the sleep pants he had on right now were pale blue and striped, and one extremely indecent degree away from see-through, as in, shadows and slightly darker areas hovered under those sleep pants in the vicinity of House's groin, thin flannel brushing over the shapes underneath to the point where even if Wilson hadn't already known that House wore _only_ those sleep pants to bed, then he would have been able to tell, without a problem, that there was nothing under them save for skin. And while that had never fazed Wilson before, he now had a rough idea of the shape and size of House's fun parts, and the way they looked straining against the front of dark brown corduroy pants. And it was just too much.

Of course, studious failure to glance caught House's attention as surely as a bald stare, because for some reason, men always strafed each other's crotches with their eyes. They probably didn't even realize they were doing it, like checking out the competition or scanning for imminent threats…

House's face crinkled up even more. "What?" He glanced down at himself, probably to make sure nothing was showing on accident, or that he didn't have a wet spot or something. When he found nothing out of place, he shrugged. And then he adjusted himself. With his hand. Wilson had no idea how he managed to keep a blank face. It was innocent locker room stuff, the last-minute resituation to make sure it's all hanging comfortably before one went out to face society. It wasn't like Wilson cared, or like he wanted to stare, but…god dammit, he had just seen the intro to a House-centric dirty video, and now here comes House, feeling himself up in the kitchen doorway.

Wilson gulped and held out a mug. "Coffee?"

House was peering over his shoulder at the living room, absently scratching at one cheek, just as he had on the VHS tape while waiting for the girl to show up. His attentions wandered groggily back to Wilson, and he shook himself. "Yeah." House stumped into the kitchen and accepted the mug, then held it out while Wilson poured fresh coffee into it from the pot. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," Wilson blurted out. Please, god, don't let him turn red.

House quirked an eyebrow, then grunted dismissal of Wilson's behavior. He grumbled something about how the bad Chinese was still screwing with him too, and focused on drinking his coffee.

Yeah, Wilson thought. The _Chinese food_ was screwing with him. "I made pancakes."

House's features lit up. "Special pancakes?"

"Sorry. No nuts." Not the kind that go in pancakes, anyway. Snicker. Erm…shut up, Wilson. "Uh…pumpkin spice pancakes. Why do you have a can of pumpkin paste, anyway? It's June."

House shrugged and padded softly away on uneven feet. "You probably left it here last Thanksgiving."

"Ah." Yeah, Wilson had made him a pumpkin pie last November just because House whined about not having any.

With his back to Wilson, House mentioned, "You're sweating."

"Food poisoning," Wilson reminded him, and fixated on serving pancakes.

* * *

The rest of Wilson's day turned into something of a hot mess. Brenda gave him a hypochondriac clinic patient who was convinced that she had the Chikungunya virus. Which of course, Wilson had never heard of. He had to pull out his PDA and text House for an explanation, which earned him a row of laughing emoticons. And then Wilson had to explain to this woman that she had the common flu. Fun times.

By the end of the day, Wilson had forgotten all about the incriminating video tape in his briefcase. He headed home, exhausted, with an armload of patient notes to type up over dinner. Pasta primavera sounded wonderful, and since his stomach had finally settled from the mishap with the questionable shrimp, Wilson whipped himself up a large serving of Italian cuisine. Half an hour later, he settled in on his couch with his dinner spread out on the coffee table in front of him, and then he opened his briefcase to retrieve his patient notes.

And there it was, the shiny black forgotten cassette tape nestled in amongst papers and note pads, mocking him. It taunted him in a ridiculous sing-song voice, like Sandra Bullock in "Miss Congeniality." _You think House is sexy. And you want to do him. You think House is – _

Wilson slammed his briefcase shut and blinked at the pasta under his nose. Okay. Know what? This was fine. So he was curious. Curiosity was a slow, insidious killer of men, so…maybe if he just finished watching it, then the fantasizing about what else might be on there would go away, and he could get on with his heterosexual life. Yeah. That sounded pretty damn good.

Wilson pushed his dinner to one side and fished the tape out of his briefcase, then approached the television as if it might bite him. He shoved the tape into the VCR with one finger, disgusted at himself the whole time, but he couldn't deny the appeal of watching it. He should treat this like any other work of amateur erotica, and then dismiss it. That was what he had planned to do last night, even after he realized that House had a part in making it. He should just follow through and end the entire incident.

Wilson took his place on the couch and picked up the remote. He wished he could say he hesitated to press play, but he didn't. He jabbed the little triangle with way too much suppressed relish, then mollified himself by saying that he just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible – just like that one time he _thought_ he had picked up a _woman_ at a bar. Wilson scrunched up one side of his mouth in residual self-conscious mortification over that incident, snuffled, and then pretended to relax as he settled back against the cushions.

The television came to life, exactly where he had left off the night before: Crandall on his knees behind House, House in a modified head lock, the girl hovering over him with a hand latched between House's legs. Not a big deal. House was in the middle of arching his pelvis into her hand, his head digging back into Crandall.

The girl giggled and released House's crotch, running her hand up his abdominal midline and into his hair. _"You're awfully enthusiastic for someone who claims not to want this."_

House rolled his eyes and made a show of trying to push away from her with his legs. Of course, that merely pressed him harder into Crandall. But maybe that was the whole point. _"What do you expect when you pull that shit on a guy?"_

"_Man, just relax." _That was Crandall. _"I know you."_

House grunted because the girl was digging her thumbs into his inseam now, pushing his legs apart so that she could slide her thighs up under his. _"Seriously," _House warned, and then he threw a worried glance at the camera even as he voluntarily spread his legs farther to accommodate her, resting the backs of his thighs along the tops of hers. Wilson met his eyes on the screen, instantly riveted by a quick flash of blue.

"_Dude, don't look at the camera,"_ Crandall scolded.

House looked at the girl instead, who was in the process of laying her chest down over his. He shied when she tried to kiss him, and she purred, _"Come on, Greg. Don't be such a prude."_

"_I'm not a prude!" _House struggled for good measure, but Crandall tightened his hold and the girl shoved a hand down between them to massage his groin while she playfully moved her hips against him. House gave up a few seconds later. _"Mnn…you both suck."_

"_Mm…I could," _the girl replied, eyes lighting up. She shifted her gaze to Crandall. _"You okay with that?"_

Crandall shrugged. _"It's a favor for a friend."_

Some friend, Wilson thought, though the jury was out on whether he meant that as a compliment or an insult. Buying your high-strung roommate a night of sex to ease his mind…that was something else entirely. Wilson wondered if House had ever considered buying _him_ a hooker to help him get over the failed marriages or the dry spells, or just the stress of being an oncologist with half his caseload kicking the bucket in slow motion. Probably not, though.

"_This was supposed to be about you," _House insisted. He made a token attempt to angle his hips and prevent the girl's hands from getting at his fly, but since she had stuffed herself up between his legs, he had nowhere to go.

Crandall seemed to reconsider the scene, however, and he let go of one of House's arms to touch the girl on the shoulder, stopping her as well. He looked down at House, who craned his neck to meet his gaze, and said, _"Look, man. If it bothers you that much, we'll stop. It's no big deal. I just thought…maybe you could use a little distraction, is all."_

"_And your idea of a distraction is a threesome with my roommate and a psychotic co-ed?"_

"_Who're you calling psychotic?" _the girl teased. House appeared to seriously consider putting an end to this, but his hesitation goaded the girl on. _"Greg, honey. Chill. I've seen you on campus often enough to know you need this. You're all tied up in knots; it's not healthy."_ When she got no argument, the girl sat up far enough to work at the button on his pants. Even before all of this, those corduroys had been snug across his hips and upper thighs, a classic 1970's fit. By now, Wilson thought they looked downright uncomfortable, thick fabric constricting an obvious and enthusiastic hard-on.

"_Midterms are a bitch," _House deflected. _"Sorta like you, come to think of it." _

The girl smirked at him and eased the zipper over House's straining erection. _"Is that so."_

House swallowed some sort of whimper. _"Yeah, it is."_ A sharp breath huffed out of his lungs and he grabbed for Crandall's knee, which was pressed against the outside of his hip. _"Maybe…a blowjob would be nice."_

The girl grinned. _"That's the Greg House I know. The one sexual act that only you can enjoy in a threesome."_

House glared at her.

Slightly uncomfortable now, Crandall asked, _"You want me to leave?"_

"_Of course he doesn't," _the girl broke in. _"I'm a psychotic bitch, remember? He can't trust me alone in a room with him."_

"_You're both certifiable," _House mumbled, but from the way he leaned back, she was obviously correct about him wanting Crandall to stay. _"This never happens again."_

"_Never," _Crandall agreed. _"I consider this my one shot at experimentation in college."_

House pursed his lips, but the effect of his ire was ruined by the shudder that ran through his body. The girl had pulled aside the flaps of House's fly and flattened a hand over the white cotton of his – Wilson snickered – tighty whities. Well, they had been all the rage in the seventies. Wilson knew that he wore boxer briefs now, most of the time. It was just one of those things that one picks up while doing his best friend's laundry on a regular basis.

"_Fine," _House snapped. Even while capitulating so that a hot girl could get him off, he still managed to sound put upon. He must have thought that more complaints were in order, because when the girl tapped his hip to get him to lift up, he muttered, _"I'm in hell." _

"_You're an atheist," _Crandall retorted.

"_Not for long,"_ the girl said, her voice dripping promise.

"_Oh, stop it with the dumb clichés!" _House barked. _"It's bad enough you two tricked me into this, now I have to put up with cheesy dialogue – did you write this crap down or something?"_

"_Ignore him," _Crandall enjoined. _"He doesn't like being out of control of a situation."_

"_Seriously?" _The girl arched a perfectly penciled eyebrow. _"Because he seems to be doing fine with it. Very…" _She rubbed hard over the front of House's underwear, and House whined. _"…very fine."_

House let out a strangled groan, momentarily silenced, his spine arced.

"_I think he likes giving up control," _the girl taunted, digging her palm in circles against House's groin. _"Likes you restraining him? Some sort of…secret fetish?"_

House panted helplessly under her hand, his fingers gouging Crandall's thigh as he rocked against her hand. _"Nng."_ That may have been an attempt at a denial. Wilson couldn't tell for sure, what with the shameless squirming and all.

Crandall gazed at him for a moment, pondering the arm that he still held bent back, and House's fingers clamped on his leg. Then Crandall grinned. _"You kinky bastard."_

"_Nuh."_ House grunted, his body bowed, and the resolution on the tape allowed Wilson a glimpse of the flushed skin around House's collarbone. It seemed all he could do to mumble a poorly thought out, _"M'not a fetish."_

The girl giggled and left off long enough to work House's corduroys all the way off and toss them off the bed, outside of the camera frame. House's shoes and socks followed, and then she climbed back between his knees, enjoining Crandall to hold him better. House jerked as Crandall reclaimed his free arm and immobilized him again, and the girl nose dived into House's crotch to mouth at the very clear shape of his cock through his underwear.

"_Ah…hah…" _House twitched against her face, his legs scrambling for purchase, set obscenely wide on the bed, and then he stifled a moan in Crandall's shoulder when the girl grabbed his hips and pinned them to the mattress. House's fingers drew in around fists of air, kept safely out of reach of anything by Crandall's hold on him. After a moment, House bit his lip and tried to hide his face out of sight of the camera while his hips struggled to thrust and increase the pressure.

Wilson was leaning forward over the coffee table by now, jaw slack, head tilted to one side in the hope that House would turn back toward the camera. The girl's hair blocked his view of House's crotch, so he focused on House's smooth, pale legs, impossibly long and pleasantly toned, defined just enough that Wilson could still find them attractive, accustomed as he was to the milky, soft quality of a woman's legs. Wilson knew that House had played lacrosse in college, and that he had rowed for at least one of his undergrad years. It showed; House was lean and fit, but not gangly. The girl's ministrations left House flexing his legs at intervals, thighs trembling every now and then, sliding a foot up for leverage only to let his knee fall open and start the cycle all over again. It was…extremely pleasant to look at.

The girl lifted her head and made some sort of _mmm_ sound, which made House's breath catch audibly on the television. And that made Wilson shift uncomfortably on the couch. Wilson was just hard enough to feel it, and the friction against his pants when he moved magnified his problem, but he steadfastly refused to touch himself, not _while_ he was watching this. That would be worse even than the fact that he was getting off on it in the first place.

"_Greg, hun." _The girl reached out to run a few fingers softly over House's jaw. She made a small sound of dismay in the back of her throat. _"You really are tense. Is this bothering you that much?"_

"_No," _House grunted, his face still out of camera range.

"_It's just stress," _Crandall supplied when House merely laid there, breathing heavily. _"The guy can't unwind. It's chronic."_

"_Ah." _As if that explained everything for her. She rucked House's shirt up, prompting House to turn his head and look at her. He really did look tense, but Wilson could see the want in his expression. _"Dylan, be a doll, would you?"_ She indicated House's arms, and Crandall let him go so that she could pull House's shirt off, uncovering a sparse expanse of body hair dusting soft yet defined abs. _"Easy, Greg. We'll have you relaxed in no time."_

Wilson tipped his head farther to the side. She was talking to House like she might spook him, as if he were a skittish horse. It was odd, and yet endearing. And erotic, seeing as how House just sat there and let them take care of him on the pretense of sex. Honestly, Wilson had pegged House as the aggressive type in bed, running sex the way he ran differentials, or perhaps turning it into a game. House kept eyeing Crandall as if he wasn't sure what to make of his presence, but he leaned back at the girl's bidding and let Crandall pin his arms over his bare chest. Really, truly odd because it was an embrace disguised as forceful restraint. Crandall was hugging him. Wilson raised his eyebrows and inadvertently wondered what that might feel like, being in Crandall's place.

House lifted his hips again at the girl's prodding, and she slid off his last article of clothing to reveal a hard, pink length of cock. The underwear sailed off screen too, and it sounded like they knocked something over. All three of them paused to peer toward the right side of the screen, and then the girl shrugged and got back to business. Wilson tried desperately not to stare at House's crotch, but he couldn't help it. He cast a reflexive glance at himself, mentally comparing measurements, then _hmm'd_ and looked back at the screen.

Wilson had to admit, House looked good like that, naked and flushed between two other completely clothed people. It probably helped that House on the screen was in his twenties, at his youthful prime. The girl didn't leave Wilson any more time for reflection on still frames. She plunged down, and from the looks of things, swallowed House whole in one go.

"_Oh! Fuck."_ House stiffened and threw his head back, bucking at the shock of it, and then he couldn't stop himself from sighing out a long, decadent moan, though by the sound of it, he tried to lock his throat before it slipped out.

Hairs rose all over Wilson's body as that moan filtered richly through his living room, and he scrambled to stab the stop button on the remote. The television went dark and Wilson gasped, his respirations ragged. Oh sweet god. Wilson was never going to be able to look at his cantankerous best friend the same way again. His lap ached now and it was all Wilson could do not to paw at himself right there on the couch, next to the pasta primavera. He jittered to his feet and practically ran to the bathroom, where he tore off his clothes and ran the coldest shower possible.

When he stepped out ten minutes later, teeth chattering, Wilson bundled himself in towels and padded into his bedroom. A dull throb had taken up residence in his groin, but he refused to deal with it. This could not be happening to him; he was forty five years old, way too old for a sexual identity crisis. And _House_…good lord, if House knew Wilson had seen that tape, he would kill him. No matter that the recorded Crandall had let slip that House was, at least in college, bi-curious. It was just…just so off limits now, Wilson couldn't even fathom a single scenario where it might be okay to…to touch him, or…look…

"God, I can't do this," Wilson told his bedroom wall. House was his friend, and changing things now was just a bad idea. Hell, Wilson probably wouldn't even like it, if by some freak chance he managed to get House in bed. It was just one of those reactionary things. Wilson watched a porno, the porno was hot, Wilson got an erection… In the end, his brain was just mistakenly fixated on House's presence in the film because it recognized House's face. Wilson's arousal actually had nothing to do with House. It was just a trick of perception. An accidental neuronal association, like Pavlov's dogs.

But it would really suck if Wilson started drooling whenever House walked by. Best to get rid of the VHS just as he had originally intended, and the associations in his mind would fade. Wilson would just have to watch himself for a few weeks, maybe keep scarce. Yeah. That would work.

Thus reassured, Wilson pulled on some sleep pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, then went back out to finish his dinner and paperwork. The television stayed off the rest of the night.

--tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, Wilson was comfortably settled in a lonely corner of the cafeteria when an annoyed set of three-limbed footsteps rang out behind him. Wilson sighed, rolling his eyes, then twisted in his seat.

"You've been avoiding me."

"No, I haven't," Wilson countered. "I've been selectively choosing my locations and routes to minimize the possibility of encountering you."

House blinked, his cheek twitching. "Cute." Then he stumped over to the empty chair across from Wilson and plopped down with a grunt at relinquishing his weight from his bad leg and cane. "So. New girlfriend?"

Wilson pulled a face as House spread out a napkin and snatched a handful of Wilson's chips. "Why would you think that?"

"You only avoid me when you're hiding something, and you've been sans squish mitten for about a month now. I figure you finally folded." He smiled at Wilson with feigned disinterest and made off with half of his chicken salad sandwich too.

Wilson curled one side of his mouth in annoyance. "Well, at least if I did fold, as you put it, I won't have to worry about dieting to impress her, seeing as you only let me eat half portions anyway."

"What are friends for? Wouldn't want you to lose your svelte, boyish figure." House tucked into the sandwich, tongue curling out to swish up a stray spot of mayonnaise from his upper lip.

Wilson stared at the tongue, and then at the rounded curve of House's cheeks, stuffed as they were with half-chewed sandwich. When House glanced off to one side, peripherally interested in the occupants of the next table, Wilson's eyes were inexplicably drawn to the contracture of House's throat as he swallowed, and from there to the slope of his neck, which had been exposed when he turned his head with that detached yet curious sort of movement unique to him, as if he figured he may as well be curious since he had nothing better to do right now. A flutter over his carotid betrayed an easy pulse beat.

House tipped his head farther to the side, a sort of swish of discrete movement, and then he swallowed the last of his mouthful of Wilson's sandwich before crinkling his nose in dismissal. When he turned back to find Wilson staring at him, House froze for a moment with his teeth sunk into the sandwich, then furrowed his brow and demanded around the bread, "Wuft?"

Wilson dropped his eyes to his plate so fast they might have been weighted, and willed himself not to blush. He should have retorted at that boyish figure comment. Something about how he had always suspected House liked looking at him, or about how he'd always wondered how long it would take House to notice…or something maybe less flirtatious. Except that House expected flirtatious; it was part of what they did.

House set the sandwich down and folded his hands in front of his napkin, as if he felt a subconscious need to shield his pilfered food while he spared a moment for actual conversation. Just in case, god forbid, Wilson tried to steal it back. "You know…"

Great. Wilson had remained silent for too long, and now House was settling in for the long haul. This was House's subtle foreshadowing of an impending talk, the kind he normally avoided at all costs. Wilson gave a long-suffering sigh and mimicked his posture. "What do I know, House?"

"You've been acting weird ever since you puked shrimp all over my kitchen sink."

Wilson couldn't exactly deny that, so he went for sarcasm instead. "I'm just wondering what you'll try to poison me with next. Maybe leprosy in my salad? Anthrax in a bottle of beer?" He paused. "AIDS pie?"

House scoffed. "Don't be a moron. That pie thing is a myth."

Wilson feigned polite disbelief. "No. Really? Because, being a doctor, I had no idea."

"And you can't put leprosy in a salad."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Must you take everything I say so literally? I was mocking you, you...twit."

If House even registered Wilson's retort, he ignored it. "Leprosy is spread through direct contact with - "

"House, shut up."

"It's substandard mockery, Wilson." House widened his eyes in a parody of shock. "It's like I'm not worth the effort of a well-constructed comeback. You could have said strychnine in your salad, or a helebore pie, but you didn't even bother to make it plausible." He sighed theatrically and adopted the most unconvincing pout that Wilson had ever seen. "I think...I think the honeymoon phase is over for us." He wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye.

Wilson pursed his lips, eyes narrowed to display his notable lack of amusement.

Under his breath, House sighed, "God, you're boring." Then he snapped, "I didn't poison you. In fact, I got it worse than you did."

"I know," Wilson remarked. "You all but fell asleep with your head in the toilet."

House bobbled his head as if proud of that fact. "Yeah. But seriously, what's up with you? Budget troubles? Ex wives find out about all that extra income you earn working the lecture circuit?"

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "If they did, who would I have to blame for telling them?"

House made a face off to one side. "Come on. I wouldn't do that to you."

"Yes you would," Wilson countered, even though he knew House actually wouldn't. It would mean increased alimony payments, which would cut into his Wilson-sponsored meal fund. And then, for some reason, a fit of temporary insanity seized Wilson. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have sex with a guy?" Of course, Wilson balked the instant the words registered, and then he stammered, "Not – not that I'm, you know. Propositioning you, because I'm not. Definitely…not. I was just…curious." Wilson's cheek quivered and he swallowed to cover the stab of queasy panic that impaled his innards.

House tilted his head and regarded him with far more care than before; Wilson had officially been white-boarded. "Little old to be getting curious, aren't you?"

Wilson deadpanned, "I figure I'm overdue for a midlife crisis event. You have a motorcycle, hookers, a drug habit… I'm feeling left out." He paused, intrigued to find that House wasn't withdrawing from the conversation, merely deflecting around it. Tentatively, Wilson asked, "So, have you?"

House shrugged and picked up a potato chip, his expression mostly hidden beneath his lowered brow. "Sure. Who hasn't?" He chewed with his mouth open, probably on purpose in the hopes that Wilson would nag him about manners in lieu of continuing this discussion.

Wilson ignored the obnoxious crunching and mumbled, "Oh." The he tapped his fingernails on the table and blurted, "Ever act on it?"

House's eyes found Wilson's from across the table, guarded yet curious. He seemed to be calculating the best sort of response in order to maximize the value of the reaction he could pry out of Wilson. "Once. In college. It was sort of a…spur of the moment thing."

Wilson felt his stomach gurgle uneasily around his half digested lunch. Manipulation or no, he asked, "How was it?"

"Different," House replied, more reserved than Wilson had previously thought him capable.

"Uh…_good_ different, or…"

"Just different."

"Ah." Wilson frowned down at his picked over meal, his bottom lip sticking out.

"Seriously," House snapped, drawing Wilson back with a jolt. "What's going on?"

Wilson shrugged and gave a nervous little laugh. "Nothing, I told you. I was just curious."

"Uh-huh." Clearly, House wasn't buying that, but he didn't press the issue. Who would? His best friend, who had often seen him naked, had once inserted a catheter for him, and who had occasionally dumped him in a shower or put him to bed drunk, had just casually inquired about his experience with homosexual encounters. It would shake anyone. Abruptly, House announced, "I have a case."

Wilson nodded and watched him climb awkwardly to his feet, hiding the ever-present wince behind a scowl. Once the sound of his footsteps had faded, Wilson dropped his head into his arms and groaned. Not only was he a fucking idiot, he was a _horny_ fucking idiot. Dammit, why him?

* * *

_They were in House's office, after hours. The hall outside the fish bowl was dark, the conference room was dark…only House's desk lamp illuminated the room. Wilson stood behind him, holding House's hands down on the desk, molded along House's back. Wilson could feel House's dorsal ribcage expand against him with each breath he sucked in. _

"_Relax, House."_

"_Can't."_

_Wilson pressed up harder against him and leaned more of his weight over House's hands. The warmth of House's body sandwiched Wilson's erection between them. It was humid; he felt suffocated by all of their clothes. Wilson ducked his face into House's neck, at the crook of his shoulder. "Let me."_

"_I have stuff to do."_

"_Don't worry about it now." Wilson slid a hand up House's left arm, then ran it down his flank, around the front of his pelvis, and dipped in to grip the firm package between his legs._

_House shifted against him, a mass of taut muscles and tension. He lifted his head and groaned, spine flexed in obvious arousal. "Wilson…"_

"_You need this."_

"_Yes."_

Wilson shot straight up in bed, breathing hard, his heart pounding in his ears. It took him a second to realize that he was at home in his own apartment, not standing in House's dim office. "Shit." Wilson pressed a hand between his legs, through the comforter, and hissed at the dizzying wave of pleasure it produced. "_Ah_…shit."

There was no staving it off this time; he was too far along already. Wilson flopped back onto the pillow and fumbled his hands under the blankets, then inside his boxers. He groaned as he wrapped his hand around himself, already damp with precum, then placed his feet and thrust hard into his fist. It took less than a minute and he flung his head back as he came, gasping for breath as his orgasm rolled through him, his body strained and rigid. Afterwards, he felt sick, and he made his way gingerly to the bathroom to wash his hands and change into clean boxers. Instead of going back to sleep, where he ran the risk of having another dream like that one, Wilson parked himself on the couch and flipped through the great big sack of nothing on over a hundred channels until it was time to get ready for work.

* * *

"Doctor Wilson, are you alright?"

Wilson jumped at the clinic console and dropped his pen into a nurse's coffee cup. "Oh! Um…sorry." He fished it out and glanced up at Cuddy, who was now standing beside him. "Hi." He blinked at her. "What?"

"I said, are you alright?" Cuddy repeated, concerned. "You've been on edge all day."

"No, I haven't." Wilson shook his head and ducked down into his chart to finish writing up his notes on his last patient.

Cuddy snorted. "Yeah. And House is a cuddly teddy bear. He came to see me this afternoon, by the way. Apparently, every time he gets near you, you run away. And not figuratively." She twiddled a finger at that and cocked her hip against the counter to regard him as both a friend and his boss. "House didn't seem to know what's bothering you. Did you two have a fight or something?" Then she smirked and asked, "Lover's tiff?"

Wilson let out a shaky laugh and tried to affect one of his charming, toothy grins. "If only." He felt it when his face blanched. "I mean if it were that simple - if only it were that...no, we...uh...that wasn't..." Wison held up one hand, waving it to negate pretty much everything in the whole of creation. "Okay, no. Just..." He shook his head, wishing that he could wipe that stupid nervous smile off of his own face, and then he cast a paranoid glance around the waiting before leaning toward Cuddy to hiss, "Not here."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow and followed him to an empty exam room, where Wilson slammed and locked the door. He couldn't even look at himself in the mirror, much less look at her, so Wilson covered his face with one hand and gestured at House in absentia with the clinic folder still clutched in the other. "He made a sex tape and I found it."

Neither of them spoke while the room digested that, and then Cuddy guessed, "And it turned you on?"

Wilson offered a mortified grimace as confirmation.

To Wilson's everlasting chagrin, Cuddy started giggling, a hesitant, disbelieving chuckle that quickly progressed to full-blown amusement. "Oh…oh, you've got it bad."

Wilson threw both of his arms out. "Right," he grumbled. "Mock me. Because I won't get enough of that from House when he finds out."

Cuddy covered her mouth, her eyes shining with mirth. "You still have it?"

Reluctant and red-faced, Wilson nodded. "And I may have accidentally, inadvertently hit on him yesterday."

Cuddy lost the battle to retain composure and leaned on the exam table while she laughed.

Wilson pursed his lips and nodded as if he could have expected anything less. "Yeah. Yeah, just…get it all out. Thanks."

With an effort, Cuddy regained control of herself and perched on the edge of the exam table. "James… I don't even know what to say. He's House? He's deranged?" She shrugged and made a funny face. "You're straight?"

"That's not really a detraction at the moment," Wilson pointed out.

"Then…_he's_ straight?"

Wilson tipped his head, mouth screwed up to one side, and replied, "Not…exactly."

Cuddy blinked, then hunched conspiratorially to demand, "It was a _gay_ porno?!"

"It was a threesome," Wilson assured her, as if she needed to know or it was Wilson's responsibility to defend House's tough manly-man rep. "With his roommate. You know." Wilson pulled a hesitant face. "That Crandall guy? The...writer? House treated his daughter a couple of years ago - fungal infection."

Cuddy looked like she'd just won the lottery. "Oh. Oh-hoh. You're kidding."

"Mmm…no." Wilson couldn't help a sympathy chuckle at that point, one soft exhalation.

Cuddy contemplated that for a moment, her eyes glazed, then looked at Wilson again. "So when you say threesome, are we talking frottage? Or taking turns with the girl, or full-on – "

"I don't know," Wilson interrupted, suddenly desperate to stop her from finishing that thought out loud. For whatever reason, the mere notion of one guy shoving it up another guy's ass disgusted the shit out of him, no pun intended. He'd rather not picture those activities, especially where House might have been involved. "I couldn't finish it."

Cuddy raised a knowing eyebrow. "You freaked yourself out, didn't you. Poor James." She adopted a simpering motherish tone and mocked, "Didja have a wittle issue wiff your pants? Couldn't hold out till the end?"

Wilson narrowed his eyes at her. "Oh, my. House, you've grown breasts." His eyes slid to the side. "And sort of. But you are _not_ allowed to tease me about it. Lisa…my god…you should have seen him. I mean, he was…writhing, and making noise, and – "

"I _have_ slept with him," Cuddy pointed out matter-of-factly. "Not that I want that advertised. But I know how he sounds in bed." She shrugged as if she didn't get what the big deal was.

Wilson gaped. "He was _hot_!"

"Yeah," Cuddy agreed, slightly impatient. Again, as if she couldn't grasp why Wilson was still going on about it. "Did you think I was in the habit of sleeping with boring, ugly, frigid men?"

"Well, no, but…" Wilson glared at her. "You don't seem to understand my predicament. Lisa. I nearly had a wet dream last night. About him."

Cuddy shrugged. "So, go peel his panties." At Wilson's look, she added, "What? It's supposedly what you're good at."

Wilson pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing. She wasn't taking this anywhere near seriously enough for his liking. "And to think, sometimes I forget why House puts up with you."

She smirked and slipped off the exam table, swishing her hips on her way to the door. "Consider yourself reminded." She pulled open the door and then stopped again, turning half toward him without meeting his gaze. "It won't go away, you know. It's like a mosquito bite; either you put cortisone on it, or you'll end up scratching your happy parts off."

"Nice analogy," Wilson muttered. That entire conversation had been absolutely no help at all.

--TBC


	4. Chapter 4

He was going to finish it. By god, this time, it would be over and done with.

Wilson eased himself down on his couch and regarded the television with a trepid expression, scotch near at hand. He didn't want to hit play because he knew what awaited him: House, getting off. There was something seriously wrong with Wilson obsessing over that. He thumbed the button on the remote, barely depressing the little triangle pad in the hopes that he could convince himself that his changer was broken and crossing the room to hit play made him a chump. No such luck. The television flickered to life, and Wilson shivered because the tail end of that moan washed over the living room even before the picture had brightened all the way on his screen. Goosebumps followed.

"I am so screwed," Wilson mumbled, then wished he hadn't, because he wasn't, and that seemed a crying shame at the moment. Which was a terrifying thought, really.

"_Fuck…Jesus…"_ House thrashed his head to one side, toward the camera, so that Wilson could watch him gaping like a fish, his eyes squeezed shut. _"Ohhhh…hhhhoh, god."_ He scrambled for better footing only to have the girl shove his thighs down wide against the bed and loom over his crotch, holding his legs down by virtue of her weight, head bobbing to an easy cadence.

Crandall laughed, and House may have snarked at him for it had the girl not done something to make him seize and choke on his own tongue. _"Wow," _Crandall remarked enviously. _"I never dated a girl who could deep throat."_

House merely hummed in response, all but gone.

The girl lifted off his cock but didn't sit up, peering up House's body with her chin brushing House's tip. Every hint of contact made House twitch and grumble. _"I think…" _the girl mused aloud, pausing to let her tongue ghost over House's slit. _"…that we should make this more interesting."_

House roused himself enough to feign concern. _"Why?"_ His voice was barely there, just a thready puff of air drifting from the television screen._ "This is nice enough."_

"_Oh, but you get bored so easily." _The girl shot him a feral grin and mouthed his glans, maintaining suction just long enough for House's stomach to clench in anticipation. Then she withdrew again. _"I can make this soooo much better for you."_

House expelled a reedy whine, his hips lifting toward her, seeking.

"_Aren't you curious?"_ the girl taunted. She ducked down to lick a long line up the underside of his cock, tongue flattened over…

Oh, right. Wilson sat back a little. House wasn't circumcised. Huh. Somehow, that mattered more in a porno than when Wilson had seen it in a hospital setting. Did foreskin affect the experience at all? Dull it? Enhance it? Or did it just get in the way? Wilson would have to google the idea later.

The girl finished her journey and let House's cock slip off her tongue. _"Hmm?"_

House rolled his eyes and snapped, _"Whatever, I don't care. Just – " _He tried to buck, but the girl still had his legs pinned. _"Oh, come on!"_

Crandall and the girl both laughed at that, and she quipped something about ungrateful, demanding, bastard grad students as she crawled over to the side of the bed to retrieve her purse from the nightstand. _"Greg, lay back, flat on the bed."_

Up until then, House had been gazing stupidly down at his own penis as if it were the most captivating thing on earth, clenching various muscles just to watch it jump. He looked up now and frowned, suspicious. _"Why?"_

"_So I can make this more interesting."_ She wiggled her ass for good measure, then went back to digging through her bag, presumably for a condom. God, let it be a condom, Wilson thought; he couldn't hold out through much more teasing.

"_Come on, Gee."_ Crandall let go of him and smacked House's shoulder before scooting backwards.

House slid down off Crandall's chest to lay supine, then craned his head back to peer up at him. _"Did you plan this part?"_

"_Hey, come on. You're the one who picked her."_

"_Mm." _House stretched out on the mattress and Wilson watched his limbs move, all smooth muscle gliding like water over a cheap polyester bedspread. While the girl rummaged around with her back to the camera, House laced his fingers behind his head and settled languidly down in all his naked glory, Crandall's knees depressing the mattress just above his head. _"This is still weird," _House groused.

Crandall shrugged it off, but Wilson thought he may have agreed. Just how normal could it feel to sit on the edge of a bed, clothed, with your buck naked roommate sprawled out before you like a prop on a banquet table? And of course, now that House was lying flat, Wilson got a very clear look at House's cock where it lay curved up against his belly. House kept making it bounce, as if he needed to distract himself with trivial pursuits even now.

"_Okay," _the girl announced, snapping Wilson from his staring jag. _"Dylan, hold his arms."_

House squinted down at her, then flinched as Crandall leaned on his forearms, trapping them in place with his hands behind his head. The girl's body hid Wilson's view of her hands, but House could obviously see what she intended to do, and his eyes grew wide. _"Hey, no. Absolutely not."_

"_Relax," _the girl soothed, kneeing her way in between his legs just as House sought to close them. _"I've done this before, and I guarantee you'll love it."_

Wilson scooted to the edge of the couch cushion, leaning all over the place as if he could see around the girl on screen just by tipping far enough to the left. On film, House dug a foot into the mattress in a bid to twist away from her, but Crandall's hold thwarted him. Okay. This wasn't fun anymore; House looked like he might actually hyperventilate. Wilson picked up the remote, intending to turn the thing off now that he found it blessedly un-erotic, but the girl chose that moment to flatten a palm on House's stomach and push down, ending his pathetic squirming. And then her other hand disappeared between them.

House froze, mouth agape, his feet set wide on the mattress while his knees drew in. And then he convulsed with a panicked sort of bleat.

"_Shh…relax, Greg." _The girl petted his belly while House desperately sucked in oxygen, lifting one foot to toe the air. Then the girl did something else with her hidden hand. House gasped and shuddered into stillness. _"That better, hun?"_

"_Uh-h-h…"_ House flexed so that his lumbar vertebrae no longer touched the mattress, upper back and ass still planted firm. Then he bit his lip and threw his head back, his face contorted in what appeared to be pleasure, hands groping at his own hair while Crandall held his arms in place. _"Oh shit. Oh…shit." _House crooked his calf around the girl's back and trembled.

"_I'd rather you didn't."_

Wilson dropped the remote, vaguely aware that it clattered under the couch. "No way." He twisted to one side, trying to catch a glimpse of what the girl was doing to him, then shouted, "Move!" at her. When she finally slipped off her knees to sit canted on one hip, and Wilson could see where her finger had gone, he covered his mouth with both hands. "Oh…I think I'm gonna be sick." Doctor or no, anal explorations during sex were _not_ erotic.

But the girl kept moving her finger, thrusting lightly inside of him, and House grunted out a breath of nonsense syllables. When she slid her other hand down off his stomach to rub his balls, Wilson nearly fell off the couch at the litany of sounds that produced, babbles and sharp gulps over jumbled expletives. House's stomach clenched, and then his body grew so taut that the bottom edge of his ribcage stood out in sharp relief, as if he were a victim of starvation, his torso elongating as he stretched out in ecstasy, legs falling farther open as he swallowed several times in rapid succession.

Wilson fumbled blindly on the coffee table for his scotch and downed the whole tumbler in one go. He was a smart man; he knew where this experience would lead, for himself anyway. Nothing wrong with fortifying himself for the inevitable…eh…best not to even think about it, lest he run from the room and attempt to scrub all his myriad imaginings from his brain with a bottle brush and a can of Scrubbing Bubbles. In lieu of conscious volition, Wilson let the tingling heat of the scotch numb him and merely blinked absently at the television, his throat caught up with a lump so fierce that he thanked his foresight in equipping his personal medical bag with a tracheotomy kit.

Crandall was busy gawking too, and making obvious attempts to appear disinterested. But how could he with House straining right there in front of him? He echoed Wilson's thoughts when he remarked, _"Damn, Gee. It can't possibly feel _that_ good."_

"_Gihk." _House licked his lips then clamped his teeth over the bottom one in a fruitless bid to silence himself. His hips betrayed him, though; he arched and shoved his ass down on the girl's finger, then groaned some sort of elongated variant of the letter V.

The girl giggled. _"Hello, prostate."_

"_Hi,"_ House gasped, his voice hoarse. Then he swallowed convulsively and jogged his hips again. Crandall shifted above him when he tensed his arms, moving forward to better pin him, and House blinked his eyes open to find Crandall's fully clothed groin within tonguing distance. Without hesitation, he lunged up and latched his mouth over whatever he could reach.

Wilson gasped into his fingers, his mouth dropping open behind his hand. A whispery groan nearly popped out, but Wilson put a stop to that and grabbed onto the edge of the couch cushion instead with both hands.

On the television, Crandall squawked and his ass shot up in the air, lifting his crotch safely outside of range of House's mouth. _"Hey!"_

House flopped back down with a frustrated groan. _"Now who's the prude?"_

"_Dude, this is not about me."_

"_How can you call this experimentation if you're not even trying to experiment?"_

The girl cocked her head to one side. _"He's got a point, Dylan. What's the big deal? You're obviously getting something out of this."_ She indicated his crotch, but between the shadows and Crandall's black pants, Wilson couldn't tell how enthused he might be.

Crandall ignored the extraneous commentary, along with House's convulsive grunt when the girl apparently brushed his prostate again. After releasing House's arms, Crandall scrabbled back off the bed. _"House, I'm not into you like that."_

House hiccupped, gathered a few wooly thoughts, and retorted, _"You could be."_

Wilson's eyes saucered. Whether it was a serious offer or just a mandatory wordplay, he couldn't tell.

The girl simply frowned down over her work. _"I must be doing this wrong. You're still capable of witty repartee."_ Then she cinched the fingers of her free hand around the base of House's cock and twisted the digit inside of him.

House thrashed back into the mattress with a yelp, his toes curling, both feet in the air near her shoulders. Crandall went still as stone, halfway to the door. A few startled, harsh, audible gasps later, House cried out in tongues, fists pulling clumps of bedding toward his armpits, gulping frantically for air until he merely keened for a moment, shaking. The girl finally let up, grinning, both hands held safely away with her fingers twiddling in victory, and House sobbed himself into a wheezing, twitching heap in the center of the bed, limbs all turned to jelly.

Crandall gawked on the screen, and Wilson moaned around his fingers, which had magically appeared back over his mouth. He mumbled, "Oh, hell," voice weak and pitchy. In front of him, House heaved in shuddering droughts of air, interspersed with residual moans that he cut off by swallowing hard, his breathing tattered.

The girl boasted, _"Dry orgasm."_

House growled something anguished and incomprehensible, legs wantonly splayed, his face muffled in a fistful of bedding.

"Fuck it," Wilson mumbled. He pressed the heel of his hand over his aching groin and then shut his eyes at the sweet pressure, his lungs momentarily frozen. There was no way around it; that was hot. _House_ was fucking hot. The world could end after Wilson did something to remedy the effect it had on him.

The girl emitted some sort of coy little come-hither chirp, drawing Wilson's eyes back to the screen. She had crawled over House's sweaty form to straddle him and was busy tonguing and nipping up the column of his neck, her front pressed down along his, sleek black dress riding up around her hips to display a hint of thong panties. Near the hotel door, Crandall stood undecided, trying not to watch the girl grind against his roommate in a wanton display of seductive technique. House merely melted further into the bedding, temporarily sated and purring in appreciation until the girl's mouth finally reached his.

They traded lazy kisses, tongues wandering, and then the girl sat up on his stomach to tilt her head at Crandall. _"Dylan, honey, come on. Don't you want in on this?" _She raked her fingernails down from House's shoulders, over his clavicle, and then paused to rub her thumbs over his nipples. House grunted and blinked a few times, his chest rising to meet her hands. _"You obviously like what you see. It's nothing to be ashamed of."_

Wilson wondered if her powers of persuasion would be this strong outside of the bedroom too, because even Wilson hearkened to what she said.

House craned his entire body backwards to catch a glimpse of Crandall, then he shoved the girl off of himself and rolled easily to his feet. _"C'mere." _He sounded irritated, but somehow, that made Wilson pay even closer attention. There was just something provocative about House stalking around a hotel room, naked, flushed and hard, and pissed to boot. _"It's one night. It doesn't make you gay."_

"_I don't know, Gee." _Crandall backed up a step before House caught him, hooking his fingers between the buttons of Crandall's shirt to tug him back to his original freak-out position.

"_You're a disgrace to your entire collection of trite motivational posters." _House yanked him closer when Crandall sought to back out of reach again, and now House's front almost touched Crandall's. _"Seize the day?"_ House mocked, following Crandall back a step. _"When opportunity knocks, open the damn door and take a pamphlet?"_

Wilson's eyes dipped to where House's cock jutted out between them, grazing Crandall's left hip. His own fingers danced over the fabric of his work pants, which he had not taken the time to change out of. He hadn't expected to need to…mainly because he was an idiot, and in denial.

_"You didn't seem to have a problem with this while you were holding me down so that a crazy English major could molest me."_

Crandall glanced down, noticed the proximity of House's cock, and then sighed in resignation. _"One time, right? Never again?"_

"_Again would make us gay," _House readily agreed.

Crandall nodded uneasily, and watched House's long fingers as they unbuttoned his shirt. _"So…you've never _actually _done this before?"_

"_Nope." _House finished opening his shirt and pulled it off of Crandall with much less style than a porno tended to boast, then balled it up and tossed it somewhere. While he was looking toward the bed, House snapped his fingers at the girl and motioned her to join them, then turned back to Crandall in time to catch his mouth with his fingers and push his face back. _"Hey, you don't kiss me; you kiss her."_

"_Oh. Right." _Crandall glanced at the girl when she sauntered up to them, but his attention shifted back to House, who was tugging at his fly.

The girl plastered herself to Crandall's back and ran her hands around to his chest. When she pinched his nipples, he jerked, and the movement caused his pants to fall off his hips. Crandall insinuated his hands between himself and House to push his underwear off without assistance, then the girl dragged him backwards to step him out of his pooled clothes.

"_Well, go on!" _House insisted when Crandall merely stood there, naked. _"Kiss her."_

Crandall turned a bit and snaked an arm around the girl's waist. This time, the making out seemed much more natural, which confirmed Wilson's earlier suspicion that the two of them had played House to con him into participating. It still wasn't as good as when House had made out with her, though; Wilson forced himself to admit that, just as he forced himself to notice that his hand was still cupped over the front of his pants. Not moving, not doing anything, simply there.

And then Crandall turned fully into the girl, both of his arms around her, palming her ass to draw her closer. House smirked at them both, tossed a cheeky glance at the camera, and pressed himself up behind Crandall.

Wilson nearly toppled off the couch. His shock came more from House's expression than his actions, but it didn't help Wilson cool off when House grasped one of Crandall's hips and started nibbling his shoulder. House's other hand slid out of view of the camera, down Crandall's far flank. From the set of House's shoulders, Wilson could tell that House had run his fingers around to Crandall's stomach, and then down. Crandall jumped and pushed the girl out to arm's length, then merely clutched her upper arms and stood there for a minute while House messed around with his groin.

Once he was fully hard, Crandall twisted his neck to meet House's gaze over his shoulder. The camera didn't pick up what they said, but Crandall appeared hesitant and mortified by whatever he said to House, and afterwards, House gave him a mischievous smirk. Crandall grimaced as if he regretted whatever he'd just said, but House shrugged, and the interlude ended.

Wilson tried to settle on the sofa, unable to tear his eyes from the television screen as House somehow slithered his upper body around Crandall's in the middle of executing this perfectly graceful descent to his knees, so that he was between Crandall and the girl when he finally touched down on the floor, at eye level with Crandall's crotch.

"Oh holy hell." Wilson gave up trying not to squirm as House started nosing about, uncertain at first. He knew what House could do with his tongue; years of watching him fellate lollipops and indulge his oral fixation with a plethora of other less appropriate household and office objects had made certain of that.

Crandall was definitely into this portion of the entertainment, as certain excited parts of his anatomy attested. He leaned forward, setting his feet wider as the girl stepped in to help support his weight, should he need it. Then he dropped a hand to the top of House's head. House took that as encouragement to try harder, and he opened his mouth wide enough to somehow suck Crandall's balls all the way in, his fingers digging into the backs of Crandall's thighs.

Wilson gave a weak whimper and tightened his hand over the heat in his groin, his breathing irregular. Crandall mimicked the sound, twenty five years back in time, and looked up at the ceiling, his fingers clenching in House's hair. Down between his legs, House was busy shoving his face up against Crandall's crotch, his jaw working while, presumably, he did something criminal with his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. It took Wilson a moment to realize that House was sucking on Crandall's testicles. Hard. A moment later, Crandall stumbled in place and gasped.

House seized his hips to keep him from overbalancing and rose up higher on his knees. He kept going at Crandall like a dog with his head in a bucket of ice cream.

The girl chuckled at Crandall's low moan and reached down to stroke Crandall's cock, which was pointing straight at her. She peered speculatively down at House, who seemed oddly content with his pursuit, and remarked, _"I always knew that smartass mouth was good for something."_

House made some indeterminate noise, snarky in nature, and Crandall bucked at the vibrations of his voice.

"_Come on," _the girl urged, smacking House's shoulder. _"You're going to run out of video tape before we get to the good part."_

Just because House couldn't abide taking orders, he wrapped his arms around Crandall's legs to hold him fast and worked his mouth harder. Crandall's knees buckled before House finally deigned to leave off, suckling obscenely as he allowed first one, then the other ball drop from his mouth. Then they all made their way back to the bed, the girl slipping her dress over her head as they went. Wilson spared a perfunctory glance for the smooth expanse of her back, her curves, the lacy black undergarments she was –

House had shoved Crandall down on the bed, and while Crandall tried to right himself and find a less vulnerable position, House apparently decided that payback was in order. He pounced on the poor guy, and Wilson's eyebrows went up to witness the rather childish bout of grappling that went on after that. If they hadn't been naked, they could have been just two guys wrestling around like a couple of apes to prove their dominance over one another. House won, hands down. He contorted Crandall into a painful looking pin, Crandall's legs spread and exposed, and then he nodded at the girl to get busy turning her tricks.

Wilson scowled and slipped to the floor to fish the remote out from under the couch. When he settled back on the cushion, he had to fast forward through about five minutes worth of the girl giving Crandall a blowjob. Then Crandall taking the rest of the girl's clothes off, House picking his teeth while the other two occupied themselves for a moment…boring, boring…boring… Now it looked like they were talking, probably a conversation about logistics, who goes first with the girl, blah blah – oops – play – _play_! Wilson went to set the remote on the coffee table but he missed and it thumped to the floor. Whatever. He'd recover it later. With his attention focused squarely on the television, Wilson pulled the bottle of scotch closer to himself, then sloshed some more into his glass without looking.

House had pushed the girl over onto her back, and now he was working his way up her left leg, mouthing her calves, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin behind her knee, his ass in the air as he ducked down and twisted his head to obtain better angles. She seemed to find his choice of activity amusing. While House tried to wipe the tolerant smile from the girl's face without actually putting his mouth anywhere fun, Crandall crawled up behind him on the bed, and reached out to sort of poke one of House's butt cheeks.

House paused long enough to glare over his shoulder and snap, _"If you're gonna touch it, touch it. Otherwise, knock it off."_

Crandall gave him a look like House had just punted his puppy. _"Are you sure you wanna do this?"_

"_You've asked me that like ten times already. Contrary to popular belief, I do not get off on being annoyed."_

"_Dude, I'm serious." _

House let out a loud, obnoxious sigh, and sat up on his knees, twisting his lower body to better glower at Crandall. _"If you don't want to do it, just fucking say so. I'm not the one with the decision making deficit here."_

Crandall's expression reminded Wilson of a sad, somewhat bewildered little boy whose ice cream scoop just fell off his cone. In a low voice, he pleaded, _"Greg – " _Wilson lost the rest of the sentence due to the film quality, but House pressed his lips together in what passed for contrition for him, and then he shook his head and appeared…friendly. He actually patted Crandall's shoulder as if he were displaying sympathy. House said a few things, persuasive things by the looks of it, and then Crandall glanced down before nodding; he appeared much more at ease with the situation than he had a minute ago. In fact, he seemed grateful for the pep talk.

Wilson glared at the screen. Why the hell couldn't House do that for Wilson once in a while? Just flipping be nice for the diminutive span of thirty seconds? Reassure him, tell him everything was going to be alright just because Wilson needed to hear that even if it was a lie. Then again, earnest and friendly House was hugely manipulative, so maybe Wilson should be thankful that House had never attempted the nice thing on him.

"_Okay,"_ House announced, rubbing his hands together. _"Time's a-wastin'."_

The girl stretched her arm to grab something from the nightstand, which she then tossed over House's once-again bowed head to Crandall. _"Don't skimp on it. Knowing him, you'll never hear the end of it." _Then she sat up far enough to grab House by the ears and drag him up her body.

_"Ow, ow, ow! Geez, you didn't have to – " _House's complaints got cut off when the girl smashed their lips together, eliciting a few more smothered expletives, and then House surrendered. He lowered himself to his elbows, hovering less than an inch above her body, scooting his knees closer against her hips when she cinched her legs around his waist, ankles crossed in the small of his back. House settled on his haunches and let her occupy him while Crandall regarded them both anxiously.

There was no way this was going the way it seemed. Exploratory fingers were one thing, but House couldn't possibly mean to let somebody… Wilson watched Crandall squeeze a dollop of clear lube straight onto House's tailbone, where it presumably dribbled down his crack. House started, perhaps at the chill of it, but the girl's grip on his ears prevented him from going anywhere or bitching about it. Okay, so Wilson knew what it _looked_ like, but there had to be another explanation for the placement of the lube, right? Because…no. Seriously, no. No?

Yeah, okay. Okay, maybe… Hell. House was an experimental sort; he had said once that he would try anything twice. Wilson downed his second scotch as Crandall shuffled closer, shoving House's ankles apart so that he could slide up between them. The burn of expensive alcohol registered somewhere in the remote reaches of Wilson's higher reasoning centers. House made an indeterminate sound against the girl's lips and set his knees wider on the mattress too, lowering his pelvis. But then he angled his hips so that Crandall had easy access, and Wilson's eyes saucered when the camera quite plainly caught the full side view of Crandall's finger gradually disappearing.

Wilson ogled the screen, his jaw slack, barely breathing. Then he glanced around for no good reason, half convinced that in the midst of his absorbed distraction, someone had gotten in, perhaps to video tape _him_ getting off on House's half-gay college experience. Nope; the room was empty, save for Wilson and his forbidden amateur porno. He faced the television again, mesmerized for some reason by the concave curve of House's back, a straight centerline of knobby vertebrae from tailbone to hairline, dipped in so that his ass stuck out and up. House didn't seem to mind what Crandall was doing, but neither did it have the same effect that the girl's fingers had.

As if reading Wilson's mind, the girl shoved House's mouth off to one side and craned her neck to peer over the slope of his shoulder. She murmured something that the camera couldn't pick up, then added a gesture that clearly pantomimed what Crandall should be feeling for in there. A comically intent expression stole over Crandall's face and he bent to his work with the same air of concentration that most students employed during finals week. House, in the mean time, looked like a blob of putty melting over the girl's body, his face hidden in her hair, breathing easily, almost as if he were falling asleep. She pet the back of his head, smoothing unruly curls down behind his ears, and whispered something in his ear. House shrugged in apparent disinterest, his abdomen sinking farther down as his knees slid apart. He came to rest soundly on top of the girl without another thought, as if he were hugging a body pillow, content to have nothing whatsoever happen behind him.

Wilson made a face at the television and kneaded a nonexistent crick out of the back of his neck. He didn't want to admit that he was losing interest, but the girl's anatomy lesson didn't seem to have taken; Crandall was sort of a well-meaning idiot, just as House had described him when he had been at PPTH. How hard could it be to find a prostate? Maybe Wilson's opinion on the elementary nature of it was skewed on account of him being a doctor, but still. Wilson entertained notions of rewinding the tape to replay that dry orgasm…yeah, that had been…nice. And then he could solve the problem in his pants and move on with his life. That would be nice too.

On screen, House's ribcage expanded with a huge, bored sigh, and he propped himself up on his elbows, his lower half still nestled snug between the girl's legs. Rhetorically, he demanded, _"Do I have to do everything myself?" _Over his shoulder, House ordered, _"Just hold still, okay?"_

Crandall looked so upset that he might actually have cried. _"I'm sorry, Gee. I don't know what I'm doing wrong."_

_"Hold still," _House repeated with more force. Then he ducked his forehead under the girl's chin, set his knees, and shoved himself back against Crandall's fingers at a different angle.

Crandall jumped and nearly drew away at the suddenness, but House was already shuffling backwards in anticipation of that, so Crandall froze. Once it was clear that Crandall wasn't about to go anywhere, House wriggled his ass and flexed back again. This time, Wilson could tell that he hit the right spot, because House shuddered violently and froze for a second before repeating the motion.

A few more shivering, strained thrusts later, and House picked his head up off the girl's chest with visible difficulty. _"Feel it now?" _House asked, his voice just as taut as the rest of his body.

Crandall nodded, his eyes wide, and gave a tentative stroke with his buried fingers.

House jerked in response, his head dropping to the girl's shoulder as if he couldn't hold it up any longer. _"Mng." _House panted through a few more clumsy finger thrusts, until Crandall grinned over his accomplishment and House couldn't prevent the slow squirm rippling through his limbs. _"Okay, wait...wait..."_

Crandall's face fell, but the girl motioned for him to keep going. _"It's fine." _Then she assured House,_ "You won't come."_ To Crandall, she directed, _"Add a finger."_

_"You being smug isn't gonna stop it," _House barked into the girl's cleavage. Then he grabbed the bedspread and twisted his shoulders, tossing his head back. _"MMMM...hmm...fuck."_

The girl giggled and Crandall's face split in a triumphant smile now that he had the hang of things. House smooshed his nose into the girl's collarbone and rocked his hips, his hands still clenched around fistfuls of cheap hotel polyester blanket. It took Wilson several seconds to realize that the sounds he heard were a combination of House's stifled moans, and his own loud panting.

"Hell," Wilson mumbled. He threw another paranoid glance over his shoulder, then attempted to discretely open his pants, if such an act could possibly be done with discretion. When he parted his fly to release his constricted cock and balls, Wilson sighed in divine relief. It was enough for now not to have khaki digging into his most sensitive places. Wilson shifted a little bit, then leaned back into the couch as if it were a crime to relax. He kept his hands at his sides, though, resolutely ignoring the situation in his lap, though his hands itched to do something. Absurdly, Cuddy's stupid analogy about mosquito bites came back to him and he scowled at the empty air. Less cloth in the way had made him nervous all over again, because he knew by now that jerking off was the inevitable end to this situation, and he still had not quite reconciled himself to that idea.

Another twenty seconds passed, and then House suddenly rounded his back and jerked his pelvis forward, curling over the girl against his volition. _"Seriously...I can't..." _House's breath hitched, and then he let out the strangest sound, like a whelp and a moan that collided and spun off into some sort of anguished sob.

_"You're fine," _the girl assured him while Crandall merely smiled like a giddy idiot and kept on behind him. She stroked her fingers down House's back, then reached some sort of decision when House choked over his next breath and fell into a brief coughing jag. The film quality doused the space between House's body and hers with impenetrable shadows, but Wilson could guess at what she meant to do when she snaked her hand between them and groped around. She had inflicted a dry orgasm on him earlier by squeezing around his base; no doubt, she meant to hold him back now by the same means. House was a lucky bastard.

_"Ghuh – " _House twitched all over, then thrashed for a moment before he went rigid. _"Ah...hah...vvmmgk!"_ He tried to shove his cock into her grip, find friction, but she didn't let him have anything. In response, House clawed at her shoulders for a second, neck arched and back rounded, tendons exposed all over his body, and then he collapsed over her, lungs heaving, all but limp while he gave vent to a tinny, exhausted moan. _"God...s'not…you're mean."_

_"You love it," _the girl countered, scrunching his hair between her fingers while he mouthed absently at her shoulder.

_"Mmm…yeah, okay."_

Wilson just sat slack-jawed on his couch, trying not to think or process anything. After all, it was only natural that watching someone get off would arouse him. That the someone was House seemed more and more like a bonus as the tape ran on.

The girl signaled to get Crandall's attention, one hand still caught between herself and House, presumably still cinched to hold him back from the brink. _"Third finger. He's not gonna last much longer."_

Crandall turned puzzled. _"But I thought you were..." _He pinched the air with his free hand to signify what she was doing to House.

_"Yeah, it's not magic," _she informed him while simultaneously trying to soothe a wantonly mewling House by stuffing his face into her breasts, as if she intended to smother him. _"At this rate, it won't work again."_

_"Oh." _Crandall nodded to himself and angled his wrist to get a third finger in on the fun.

He did something wrong, though, because House suddenly yelped and shied off to one side. _"Dammit! What the fuck?" _Even Wilson cringed at the sharp, hurt tone of his voice.

_"Sorry!" _Crandall nicked his fingers free, too fast by the second wince that House gave. Shaking his head in chagrined uncertainty, Crandall held both hands far away from House. _"What did I do?"_

Before House could verbally rip Crandall to shreds, the girl barked, _"Hey."_ She shoved House's face up so that they were looking at each other. _"This will be easier if you have something else to focus on." _She pointed between them, intimating that he should do something with a conveniently located portion of his anatomy.

House sneered at her. _"You've got to be joking. I'm done here."_

The girl thwarted his attempt to climb off by wrapping her legs over House's back again, ankles crossed, and squeezing until House wheezed in discomfort. _"Greg, honey. You're upsetting Dylan."_

"_The fuck do I care? It's my ass!" _House tried to wrench free, then made a noise like a rusty accordion and demanded, _"Leggo, you freak. I'm not into pain." _But he couldn't do anything to loosen her legs. Eventually, House flopped back down with a put-upon groan and flicked some fingers at Crandall. _"Fine. Have at it."_

"_Come on, Greg."_ The girl reached between them again, and Wilson could only tell that she was guiding House into her by the way that House shimmied forward and then curled a little, the girl angling herself up against him. _"Better?"_

"_You still suck," _House grumbled. _"And not in the good way." _But he sketched a few tiny circles with his hips, wriggled into a better position, their bodies pressed more firmly together, and then sighed as he settled down into relative stillness.

"_At least now, you're not in imminent danger of ending all our fun," _the girl offered with a sultry smile. She combed her fingers through House's hair, then tugged his face up to initiate a long, languorous kiss with which to distract him. Wilson caught a flash of tongues colliding before House sealed their mouths together, and then it degenerated into suction, hollowed and then filled-out cheeks, and the pointed flex of jaw muscles. After a minute of this, the girl gave Crandall a thumb's up, and he resumed his task. This time, with House otherwise engaged and presumably less tense, a third finger slipped in without a hitch.

Wilson just tilted his head and stared at the screen, his rational mind anesthetized by a swirling mixture of shame, curiosity, and a fierce arousal. This shouldn't get him off, but it more than did the trick for him. Did that make Wilson gay, or simply adventurous? And was it just House's participation, or would any man have done? Was it man thing at all, for that matter? Maybe the stupid thing was just hot, innocuously hot. God... Wilson scrubbed a hand down one side of his face and groaned in exasperation. He was too fucking old for this.

The next part of preparation went quickly by necessity; House took to gulping out ragged obscenities in no time flat, the girl's hands clenched on his ass to help hold him still. Wilson assumed that all of those abortive twitches and sharp jerks of his hips meant that without restraint, House would have plowed forward and come in a heartbeat. And of course, that thought just had to send more of Wilson's blood plummeting south until he could feel his corpus cavernosa throb in time with the pulse of blood in his ears. At some point, House started begging both of them to stop torturing him, the sound of which made Wilson flush madly, a fine sweat breaking out under his shirt even as he cringed from the thought of what he was about to witness. Wilson may have resigned himself to finding this whole thing erotic, but he had not quite reconciled with the voyeuristic aspect; he knew damn well that House never meant for him to see this. And honestly, Wilson had no idea how he would break it to House, because he would definitely be breaking it at some point; there was no way he could keep this, and its effect on him, to himself. And _that_ was Wilson's half-ass admission to himself that he entertained a blurry fantasy of reenacting this in real life, on House's bed, with himself starring front and center: Wilson's hands kneading House's flesh, Wilson's body hovering over him, Wilson's breath stirring the hair at the nape of House's neck, Wilson's voice whispering sweet, dirty encouragements into House's ear, making him gasp, making him beg Wilson to fuck him...

"Okay," Wilson told himself just to interrupt his imagination from carrying things any farther. Just because House did it with a guy once, didn't mean he would ever consider doing it again, and certainly not with Wilson. It was just a useless pipe dream, and it ended with this film. It really did. It had to.

_"Greg, hun." _The girl tapped House's cheek to gain his bleary, hormone-addled attention. _"How are we doing?"_

House grunted in response, his body rocking gently of its own accord, back and forth between the girl and Crandall's fingers. He was so far gone that Wilson doubted he was even capable of speech at this point. What must it feel like to come twice and yet find no relief? God, the thought alone sent a fine sheen of sweat to seep from Wilson's pores.

The girl smiled, and for a moment, it looked like genuine affection. Then she held House's head down in the crook of her shoulder and gave Crandall the nod, admonishing him to go slowly and wait for House to relax around him – not to force it. Wilson pushed himself up straighter on the couch, eyes glued to the screen as Crandall backed off long enough to roll on a condom.

After giving himself a few extra seconds to reconsider, Wilson swallowed the last of his lingering discomfort and worked his pants and boxers down to his knees. Somehow, it seemed only fair that if House bared himself to Wilson on the tape, wittingly or not, then Wilson should expose himself in turn. Mutual mortification in absentia, perhaps, and Wilson was certainly mortified enough for the both of them.

As Crandall crawled up behind House, carefully maneuvering on hands and knees to best accommodate House's flattened crouch, Wilson took a deep breath and grasped himself before he could think better of it. "Gnn." Wilson's eyes rolled toward the ceiling for a moment, then drifted closed over a mental image of himself kneeling behind a willing House, poised right on the verge of taking him. He dared to thumb the sweet spot beneath his cockhead, and a bolt ran through him like electricity. All he could think about was House, and how it might feel to have a cane-callused hand wrapped around him instead of his own moisturized one.

A breathy, _"Holy shit," _grabbed Wilson's attention, and his eyes darted back to the screen where Crandall appeared overwhelmed. The exclamation had been his, and House squirmed in response to the breaching of his outer sphincter. It wasn't clear whether he liked the feeling or not, since the girl's hand remained clenched over the back of House's neck, holding his head down as if he might escape otherwise. _"Wow," _Crandall added. He moved his hands from the bedding and braced himself on House's lower back, sitting up slightly while he nudged his way forward.

The girl smirked down the length of House's body. _"Tight, huh?"_

House answered her instead of Crandall, his voice thin and pitchy. _"Shuddup." _

This response made the girl chuckle, and Wilson covered his mouth with his free hand. His left clenched smasmodically around his cock, and he finally gave in with a low moan, stroking himself slowly, his fist loose to prolong his own experience. He wanted to come when House did, strange as it sounded to his own mind. But that was what one did when watching a porno for the purposes of self gratification – one sought to come with the people on screen. "I'm going to hell."

House gave off a startled whimper and twitched; Wilson guessed that Crandall had just passed the secondary ring of muscles. _"God..."_ House groaned, dropping his belly to give Crandall a better angle.

"_You okay, Gee?"_

"_Uh...huh. Sure."_

"_Does it hurt?" _Crandall pressed, sounding worried.

House wriggled a bit, then slid his knees farther up to hug the girl's hips. _"Um...dunno. S'just...different."_

Wilson gulped back some sort of indeterminate noise and slid down on the cushions, spreading his legs wider so that he could get his right hand down there too. While Crandall delved onward in front of him, Wilson tugged lightly at his own scrotum to hold himself at bay, his left hand gliding up and down his length with the help of a steady ooze of precum and the sweat on his palm. For a moment, he wondered if it were even possible for him to hold out until the end of the film, but he was determined to wait; he'd gladly yank at his own balls if it helped stave off the pressure building in his groin.

After what felt like an eternity to a plateaued Wilson, Crandall's hips bumped up against House's rump, and the figures on screen paused for a second, Crandall pointlessly attempting to catch his breath, and House shivering so hard that even the grainy film picked it up. The girl appeared serene, squished beneath the weight of two men, her fingers massaging House's neck and shoulders while he adjusted to the sensation of having someone's penis inside of him.

A minute later, House whimpered and said something that sounded like, _"Get a move on."_ If snark had been his intention, he failed to convey it; if anything, the way he said it just made him sound that much more pathetically desperate to get off.

"Fuck," Wilson muttered. He bit his lip in the hopes that a sharp point of pain might help his cause, but it did nothing to lessen the heat pooling between his legs. Already, he could feel pressure condensing at the base of his spine like pain, and he swallowed hard, digging his head back for a second to concentrate on withholding the inevitable explosion. His pelvis twitched in spite of himself, though, and he couldn't stop himself from rocking just a little bit, pushing into his own hand. Since it seemed a lost cause anyway, Wilson groaned and directed his endorphin-blitzed gaze at the television again.

They were all moving now, Crandall pumping with a fair bit of effort, attempting to keep the tempo slow and easy, and House... Jesus, House pushed back into every thrust as if there weren't a perfectly warm and willing female underneath him, as if the vagina encasing his cock couldn't compare to the feeling of the dick in his ass. As if getting fucked were akin to breathing at this point.

"Oh _sweet_ lord," Wilson gasped. He could barely hear House's ecstatic moans over the sound of his own labored breathing and the squelch of his hand flying over his penis. It was obvious that House could only barely control himself; he had all but come undone, decades ago on a hotel bed, breathing so hard that he probably would have wailed if he could have only held onto a little bit of that oxygen he so frantically sucked in. Wilson grabbed at his own thigh with his free hand to brace himself, his entire body starting to tense, tendons standing out as he strained simultaneously to hold back and to crash over the edge. He pushed at his leg, which propelled him deeper into the couch cushions. In front of him, Crandall lost whatever self control he had been clinging to, and his thrusts shoved House forward so that all he had to do was hang onto the body beneath him and let Crandall's momentum propel him back and forth, as if fucking the girl were merely a side effect of Crandall fucking him. An afterthought hardly worth mentioning.

Just when Wilson decided that he couldn't possibly wait any longer, impending orgasm glowing like a red hot coal in his groin, a rod of fire piercing him from his tailbone to the tip of his penis, House let out a yelp and scrabbled to grab at anything to anchor himself. Wilson whined high in the back of his throat and forced his hand to stop moving, his legs spread and trembling with the effort of remaining still. House pushed himself up onto his hands with a litany of gasped expletives and then threw his head back. His shoulder muscles bunched as he dropped his head back down, rounding his back, waves of pleasure rippling through his limbs so forcefully that Wilson could see it from his vantage point on the couch, but he could tell that House wasn't actually coming yet. It just seemed to build, sharper and more violent, wracking his frame with unexpected torturous bursts of ecstasy while he grit his teeth and quaked and sobbed.

Somehow, Wilson kept his eyes open, his gaze glued to the television, breathing so hard that he felt light headed. Crandall leaned over House's bowed body and wrapped his arms around him. Before Wilson could puzzle out the reason behind that, Crandall yanked House up with him, drawing him back onto his knees, blankets ripping from House's fingers as Crandall clutched him and kept on pounding into him. House grabbed for where Crandall's hands were clasped over his sternum, apparently just to have something to hang onto, the cords of his neck standing out as his entire body went rigid and arched, a shocked, soul-shattering cry caught behind his teeth –

The screen winked out.

Wilson froze, lungs seizing up in abject confusion. He blinked, too far gone to process what the hell had just happened, his ears catching the click of his VCR as it stopped and then automatically began to rewind. "Uhh..." Wilson blinked a few more times, head cocked at the blank screen before him, mouth still slack, the air around him heady with the tangy aroma of arousal. Then he twitched. "Son of a bitch!"

Wilson fell off the couch in his haste to snatch up the remote. He jabbed the stop button and hit play, then fast forward until he reached the point where Crandall pried House up off of the girl. Again, the screen went dark just as House started to keen.

"You did _not_ just stop!" Wilson yelled at the television. He pushed himself to his feet in a mess of rubbery limbs and tottered over to the VCR, still on the brink of coming, convinced that he merely needed to hit something to make it all better. He stabbed the eject button and glared at the tape reels, then swore luridly. "Thirty more seconds!" Wilson smacked the VCR in impotent anger, then lobbed the video at the couch. "God damn it!"

For lack of anything better, Wilson seized his own hair with both hands and tugged, growling out his sexual frustration, as if he had actually been in on the act and the essential party had shoved him off and left the room. Then he took a second to realize what he was doing, and his gaze trickled down to his still hard, aching, glistening cock, his pants wrapped around his knees. Wilson glanced about, his eyes resting nowhere while he stood and pulled his pants back up, tucking himself in with quite a lot of difficulty. He studiously ignored just how much it hurt to stuff his rigid penis so unforgivingly back into his pants, but no way in hell did he intend to finish now.

Once he got himself zipped up, Wilson stomped over to the phone with an overly dramatic flare, as if he were putting on a show for an audience of none. He needed an ear, and House's was _not_ going to work, not for this, nosirree bob. Nope. And he was a pathetic loser because as he stood there scowling death at the phone, he could think of only one person who might conceivably listen to him, excluding House. Wilson really needed to make more friends out of female acquaintances instead of sleeping with and alienating them all by the second or third get-together. Guy friends certainly wouldn't do in a jam like this; they wouldn't get it, not at all. Hell, _Wilson_ didn't even get it, and it was _his_ issue!

A few seconds later, Cuddy picked up the ringing line, sounding tired from the late hour. _"Hello?"_

"Lisa." Even to his own ears, Wilson's voice sounded raspy, disused...almost menacing for the low, grating quality. He could have been an extra in a low budget gore film.

_"Who is... Wilson?!"_

"I…am so…fucked."

Nothing, and then, _"Why? Oh my god, did you tell him?"_

"No…"

_"Then...is someone hurt? James, are you alright?"_

His voice flat and gloomy, Wilson stated, "They ran out of tape," as if it were the apocalypse and he had run out of hope the moment his VCR stopped. It certainly felt like a crime to him, running out of tape _right fucking there_ and then not having the decency to burn the infernal thing to prevent just this sort of situation from arising.

_"They..." _Cuddy fell silent for a heartbeat, then snorted out a burst of laughter. _"Oh, you poor thing."_

"This isn't funny!" Wilson insisted, except it kind of was, and he didn't want to admit it. Even more amusing was that he had called up his boss, albeit a friend, to whine about the fact. Wilson fell down on the couch and dropped his face into his hand. "Lisa, I am in so much trouble."

_"No kidding," _Cuddy agreed, still chuckling to herself in that feminine manner of hers.

Wilson blinked his eyes wide at the whorls of his fingerprints, then snapped, "You're not helping."

Cuddy took pity on him and giggled herself back to sobriety. After a deep breath to ensure she wouldn't dissolve again, Cuddy stated the obvious. _"You could talk to him about it."_

"And say what?" Wilson demanded, exasperated. He knew that he shouldn't be taking his frustration out on her, but he didn't know where else to throw it. Adopting a false air of cheer, Wilson chirped, "Hi, Greg, my bestest buddy in the whole wide world. I stole your secret ass-fucking tape, and now I'm suddenly hot for your bod. Let's screw!" Wilson snorted. "And we lived happily ever fucking after. While fucking."

Cuddy scoffed. _"Don't be an idiot. He doesn't have to know you saw it."_

"Seriously?" Wilson asked, scowling at the blank television since really, it was the television's fault anyway. "In what universe does House _not_ find out that I saw it? He can smell secrets from three hundred paces."

_"Three hundred exactly?"_

Wilson glowered at the empty air. "Yes, Lisa. I measured it with a yard stick."

To her credit, Cuddy ignored the sarcasm._"James. If you want to sleep with him, seduce him. You're good at that. Plus, he's probably easy since he usually has to pay for it. All you'll have to do is buy him a pizza and strip."_

Wilson pulled the phone away and narrowed his eyes at it. When he placed it back to his ear, he suspiciously demanded, "What are you doing?"

_"What do you mean, what am I doing?"_

"You're screwing with me."

Cuddy let out a loud groan of pure exasperation. _"Look. If you want to woo him, woo him. If you want to forget you ever saw the tape, then burn it and play normal. I don't care. Okay?"_

"Don't you have a thing for him?" Wilson asked unnecessarily.

Cuddy didn't answer for a moment, and when she finally spoke, she sounded sad. _"Yeah. But it would never work, and I don't think House really wants it to anyway. I have a child, a career...there's no room for him, and even if there were, House is...House. He wasn't made for normal life, and frankly, I wouldn't want him normal even if he were." _She paused again, and Wilson could almost hear the resigned shrug in her soft exhale. _"He was made for you. And I think you both know it."_

Wilson blinked a few times, his eyes falling to the carpet at his feet. For some reason, hearing that made him feel hollow inside. "Lisa... I don't know if I can handle that."

_"I know," _Cuddy told him sympathetically. _"Whatever you do, just... Be careful, okay? For both your sakes."_

Wilson sucked in an uneven breath. "Yeah," he agreed, soul sick for no good reason that he could see. "Um...thanks."

_"Sweet dreams," _Cuddy replied. The line went dead before Wilson could return the sentiment.

Unfortunately, he didn't have any dreams that night, sweet or otherwise. He couldn't manage to quiet his mind at all. By morning, the only resolution he had made was to paint his bedroom ceiling something other than dreary white, because dreary white certainly wasn't any good for lulling him to sleep. He entertained half-crazed notions of getting a photo shop to make a poster out of a still frame from the VHS tape, perhaps the shot of House strutting around the hotel room with his cock sticking out, but he wouldn't know how to explain a naked House pin-up on his ceiling to anyone who visited, least of all to House himself. Then again, the shock value would probably be worth it.

Until House socked him and broke his cane over Wilson's head, that is.

Wilson ended up dragging himself out of bed the next morning, pissed off and exhausted.

--TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry, all - both for the long wait, and the fact that I had to repost this because I'm a dumbass and skipped two chapters. *rolling eyes at self*

Anyway, here it is again, and I hope you all enjoy it!

* * *

"Wilson!"

Wilson leapt in his desk chair, pen flying from his hand as his office door crashed open to reveal House with a manic grin cracking his gleeful face in two.

"Hiya, buddy."

Without bothering to take further note of him, Wilson rolled his eyes, patting around the papers littering his desk in search of a hidden pen. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," House replied, his tone a study in practiced transparency. "Why do you always assume I've done something?"

Dry as the Gobi, Wilson answered, "Because you only use that tone when you need me to alibi you." He twitched his eyebrow to make his point, then stopped dead on the spot, halfway through forming a tolerant expression. "What the hell is that?"

House's mirth dimmed a bit as he glanced down at himself. "Clothes?"

Wilson couldn't tear his eyes away, and he didn't for one second believe that _this_ could be a coincidence. House had on those dark brown corduroys – certainly not the same pair he had owned in college, but so close as to render the difference moot. The pants alone were no big deal; House had worn them often enough before mixed with his ratty old t-shirts or a mismatched blazer, but today… No, today he had coupled the corduroys with a black turtleneck and a tastefully form-hugging brown blazer. Wilson blinked, stunned by the realization that House had hips and a somewhat trim waist. And that it was…attractive on him.

"What?" House demanded, truly unsettled. He tucked his chin again, scrutinizing himself as best he could from that vantage point. When he looked back at Wilson, he grimaced. "Is it that bad? I was going for retro. You know. Vintage?"

Mission accomplished. "You look like you stepped out of a 70's porno film."

House started, narrowed his eyes, and peered down again. "Seriously?" he asked, though by now his entire demeanor tittered an adorable brand of 'aw crap' and bashful self-consciousness. God, that was hot on House. The expression, not the clothes. Though the clothes were pretty damn good too.

"Yeah," Wilson drawled to cover up the impulse to gulp. He still suspected House of doing it on purpose, though. He must have noticed that his things had been rifled through, found the VHS tape missing...or maybe he broke into Wilson's apartment (with the key Wilson gave him) and found it. Or maybe he saw it in Wilson's briefcase, where it resided at this very moment... Wilson toed his briefcase farther under his desk, and tried to affect a sympathetic expression. All he could picture, though, was House pinned to a hotel room bed with a hot girl rubbing him through those almost-very-same pants. "You should change." Wilson winced at the crack in his voice.

Thankfully, House didn't notice Wilson's sudden bout of issues and nerves; he merely scratched his stubble and sighed, peering off at the windows. "Great. I've been walking around like an idiot all day, and no one has the decency to tell me except you."

Not like an idiot, no; like a handsomely matured 70's porn star – the au naturale sort that exuded sex appeal without need of airbrushing. Didn't Wilson just say that? "Well, what are friends for? Not that you'd do the same for me; you'd just let me keep walking around like that for the sake of entertainment."

House flared his nostrils at Wilson, an expression of grudging thanks. "Overexposure to your stuffed-shirts and awful taste in ties must be screwing up my fashion sense."

"Whatever you say," Wilson agreed amiably. He figured that a small degree of staring could be chalked up to his previous intimation that House looked like an idiot in that getup – like staring at a fat woman in a sequined mumu, assuming that fat women in sequins could induce erections. Wilson cleared his throat and tried not to act like he was purposefully blocking his lap from view as he slid his chair closer to his desk to do just that.

"I'm gonna go change."

Wilson gave a somber nod. "That's probably wise."

"Find some scrubs..." House trailed off and threw Wilson a sheepish glance, almost a cringe. "Unless scrubs would be worse?"

"Uh...no. They would not."

House grimaced again. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, House. Even the pink ones."

"Dammit." House grunted one last time, scowled at himself, and then stumped from the room, his original reason for visiting forgotten.

Wilson watched him go – okay, yeah, checked him out as he trundled from the room. After the door swung shut, Wilson groaned long and hard, burying his face in his arms on top of a patient file. Into his shirtsleeve, Wilson muttered, "Somebody shoot me." And then it occurred to him to wonder at the impossible coincidence he had just witnessed, of House wearing almost an exact replica of his porn outfit a mere day after Wilson finished gawping at naked-college-House. A second later, he blanched, and then anger took over.

* * *

Wilson barreled through Cuddy's door and stabbed a finger in her direction without any sort of preamble. "You told him!"

To her credit, Cuddy didn't even flinch at the rude intrusion, inured as she was to such things, courtesy of House. Though she did appear surprised to find Wilson in the center of the maelstrom for once. With one penciled eyebrow quirked, she drolly inquired, "Excuse me?"

"Admit it! You told him about the – the – _dammit_!" Wilson pranced for a second, then jittered toward her desk to accuse, too loudly in the enclosed room, "I saw what he was wearing."

"Um…I hope he was wearing clothes?"

"Just admit that you're both screwing with me!"

Cuddy looked bored, much as she did when House blew up in her presence for no discernable reason that any sane person would understand. "Is this the part where I magically pull the point of this conversation out of thin air? Because I'd like to move it along. I have a meeting in an hour."

"Oh, don't play me. I confided in you, and you – you _told_ him! He's out there right now, screwing with my head!" Wilson paused to replay that, shook himself out of the pun, and fixed a hurt look on Cuddy. "How could you?"

"Ah. This is just the next stage of your latent homosexual freak-out." Cuddy set down her pen and rested her chin on her palms, elbows on the desk. "Carry on."

Wilson squinted at her, blinked at the far corner of the room, and then fell gracelessly into one of her guest chairs. He took to bobbing his knee, fuming, and then reached out to nudge paperclips across the edge of her desk.

Still annoyed, but mildly more amicable, Cuddy remarked, "You _do_ know who you're acting like, don't you?" She raised an eyebrow when he glared at her from the corner of his eyes. "James, I didn't say anything," Cuddy assured him. "I wouldn't subject you to that."

"Like hell," Wilson muttered.

Indignant, Cuddy insisted, "I wouldn't!"

Wilson gouged a few fingers into his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Lisa, he is wearing the _exact_ same thing he wore in the stupid video. How can I honestly call that a coincidence?"

"Maybe he found out on his own. You're not exactly known for your covert op skills."

Wilson stared doom and gloom at her for a second. "Ha."

Cuddy offered him a small smile. "He's rubbing off on you."

Wilson rolled his eyes because no, he wasn't. Not that Wilson didn't want him to, in a very non-euphemistic way. Dammit. He sighed and allowed his mouth to turn down in a pensive, semi-disappointed frown. Why should he be disappointed that House didn't know? It wasn't like Wilson _wanted_ him to know. "You didn't tell him? Honestly?"

"As much as your heterosexual affirmations amuse me, I don't actually have all that much free time today," Cuddy informed him, still so casual and unconcerned that Wilson actually broke out in goose bumps at the incongruity. "And if he knew, do you really think he would stop at just dressing the part?"

Reluctantly, Wilson conceded her point. So it was just the universe screwing with him, rather than Greg House. Actually, the thought of a sentient universe playing pranks at his expense was somehow far less terrifying than the idea that House was getting his jollies via low key mind-fucking. "No," Wilson groused, making no move to hide his pout.

Cuddy apparently saw something in his demeanor that Wilson hadn't meant to show. "Maybe you'd like to get to the end of the crisis and just spit out what's really bothering you?"

Wilson ground his teeth for a second, then muttered, "I still have an erection."

"Uhb..." Cuddy glanced at his lap, of course; when somebody announces that, one can't help but check, right? Wilson huffed to let her know he noticed, and she made a face at the ceiling instead, pen tapping symphonies out on her desk blotter. "I don't even know how to respond to that."

"It's not like he did anything," Wilson griped, flailing a hand at House's absent self. "He walked in, Cuddy. He just walked in, and he was wearing this – those _pants_. And it just...I mean, _bam_!" Wilson drilled a finger into the bare air to illustrate this.

Inevitably, Cuddy's eyes flickered down to his lap again, where Wilson had folded his labcoat and his hands to hide any lingering evidence of what had struck him in his office. "I'm…sorry to hear that." It sounded like a question, as if she weren't completely sure what Wilson wanted to hear.

In truth, it didn't much matter what Cuddy said at this point; Wilson was on an indignant role. How dare his own body parts betray him? "Next thing I know, I'll brush against him in the hall and end up walking funny for an hour. And do you think he won't notice _that_? I mean, you know how he is – he's _there_ in my personal space _all the time_. I can't get a coffee without him breathing over my shoulder, waiting to steal a sip! And god forbid we end up alone in an elevator – oh-hoh! I'd end up hyperventilating, then passing out and concussing myself on the handrail before we hit the ground floor."

"James, I think you're overreacting." But she looked amused when she said it.

"Overreacting, no." Wilson waved his hands to ward off the very suggestion, still in his labcoat pockets. "No, this is me _under_ reacting. I haven't even gotten to bowling night or ball jokes yet." Then he glanced down, scowled, and clamped his hands back over his groin. Just in case. "And he _flirts_ with me. Have you noticed how often he flirts with me?"

Eminently reasonable, Cuddy pointed out, "He flirts with anything with a pulse."

Wilson rolled his eyes with an exasperated groan because she was right; House would hit on a llama if he thought it could lessen the doldrums. "Damn him," Wilson grumbled, and then he had to shift in his seat because tandem thoughts of House and blowup dolls had renewed a certain problem of his.

Cuddy noticed the particular manner in which he squirmed, then had to ask as a doctor, "Is this a medical emergency? Should I get a suction syringe and drain your unmentionables?"

"Uggh – _no_!" Wilson replied, sullen and put off. Then he heaved a sigh and set his feet flat on the floor to still his restless bouncing knees, still shielding his recalcitrant groin. _It_ was pretty much gone already, but the sensation of it having been there remained; it wouldn't take much to perk it right back up. "I'm screwed."

Wilson reiterated this an hour later, when he ran across House in the hallway and found that while House had changed into scrubs baggy and thick enough to occlude anything inappropriate, they also clung to his various limbs as he stumped around, tossing his weight onto his cane and gesturing in his typical high-strung fashion like a crack addict instead of a medically necessitated recovering Vicodin addict. Wilson wondered how suspicious House would be if Wilson went out to buy him a pair of innocent jeans during lunch, and left them anonymously folded on his desk with a note telling House that he looked like a fairy in lavender scrubs. It was probably pointless anyway; Wilson pictured House in jeans too, low slung on his hips so that a sliver of skin showed whenever House unclipped his pager.

God, Wilson was so screwed; it was only sheer dumb luck that House hadn't yet followed Wilson's wandering gaze to various uncivilized parts of his anatomy. And the moment House had a spare second to be bored, he _would _notice. Eventually, he noticed everything.

* * *

_Cloth rustled as Wilson slithered up House's body, sweat-slickened skin gliding under Wilson's palms. Up, up from House's navel, over ribs and nipples, collar bone, a dip of fingers in the crook of House's shoulder, and then Wilson's hands tangled themselves into House's hair. Their mouths met and Wilson pressed House down beneath him, into a sea of pillows and rumpled blankets, an endless expanse of bedding to cushion them. A hiss of air escaped between their lips, blending with heavy breaths and a sharp grunt. House tipped his head back and gouged his fingers into Wilson's shoulders, anchoring himself as Wilson entered him. One long leg crooked around Wilson's upper back while the other found purchase at Wilson's waist, House's heels digging into the soft flesh between ribs and hip bones. _

_Wilson delved forward and shattered himself in the heat, the indescribable molten silk that encased his cock. House reared up under him, his erection dragging across Wilson's stomach, and Wilson ducked down to nip at the sharp line of House's collar bone. Salt tickled his tongue and he dipped in to taste the sweat pooled in the hollow of House's throat as he took up a rhythm, gentle as the calm waves lapping the hull of a drifting sailboat. They moved together like water, slaps of flesh so like the quiet slap of a lone swell, bodies rocking in perfect time, like music. House parted his lips just the tiniest bit, his tongue visible between his teeth. He sucked in a shuddering breath, tattered like old cloth sails in a breeze, and whimpered on the exhale as if he were dying right then and there. His lower lip quivered under an assault of bliss. _

_Wilson whispered an obscure, muffled word, his flesh on fire wherever House touched him. Slender fingers kneaded Wilson's muscles on each instroke, clenching to the rhythm of Wilson's thrusts. Wilson carded his fingers through House's damp hair, folded forward to force their mouths back together without breaking stride, his motions long and slow and languorous, but firm enough that House's back pulled against the sheets, perspiring skin stuck on cool cotton as the air filled with musk and stifled moans. _

_They pushed against each other only to pull closer again, Wilson's hands fisted in the sheets by House's shoulders. Faster now but still so soft, so firm. House swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing with the contraction of his throat, and Wilson moaned against his neck, his hips moving more sharply with each thrust now. Wilson traced patches of supple skin with a single finger, his touch so light that House shuddered in response. They were mingling liquids, oil and water stirred together, entwined for a moment before physics condensed them back into separate parts. Two elemental substances held under an open flame, catalysts wreaking havoc on each other before the reactive spark devoured them both alive. _

_So much heat pervaded the air that Wilson muffled his face in House's shoulder just to breathe. Stubble grazed the shell of his ear and House's arms raised to encompass him, to clutch him close, so close, papery moans filling the negligent spaces between them. Wilson could feel the sweet texture of House's inner thighs where his legs wrapped tight around Wilson's body, fevered skin and a light covering of coarse leg hair, and _god_, the nebulous heat and pressure where their bodies joined, moist skin and smooth, rippling muscles encasing Wilson's cock like wet satin, so hot, overwhelming and heavy with arousal, shaking and shivering in waves of heat like sun-scorched asphalt, a billow of backdraft in an inferno, blazing pressure, a pike driving in at the base of Wilson's spine, so sharp and deliciously agonizing, and perfect. _

_Wilson pushed harder and House writhed beneath him, groping and grasping for any part of Wilson within his reach, stroking the hair from his forehead, digging fingernails into Wilson's back, hooking his hands behind Wilson's knees to draw him closer, as if such a thing were possible. Wilson arched into him, clawing forward, anything to tip them over the edge, just a little deeper, a little harder, pushing and gasping for breath, sobbing at the torture of being caught on the brink, held back, plateaued, gritting their teeth and pleading with the other, sharp exclamations and broken whimpers, so much like pain and yet so unbearable that Wilson couldn't help but pray for more, wrench at the body beneath him to drag it closer, limbs interwoven and shaking at the strain of holding themselves together when all they wanted was a glorious wreck, and Wilson couldn't breathe anymore, the weight of an expectant edge crushing his lungs, House's body hard and taut and everywhere, and the pleasure like wrought iron spikes from a blacksmith's forge – _

"Fuck!" Wilson jolted awake, too late to stop himself, rigidly curled around a mass of pillows and blankets that he had somehow twisted up between his legs, his ankles crossed and trapped in fabric. "Oh god..." Wilson fisted the bedclothes over a moan that he couldn't cut off in time, and helplessly ground himself into the mess of cloth as he came, jagged spurts soaking his boxers and sleep pants. The heated glow tore through him with an intensity that only vague, fevered dreams and a lack of actual stimulation could provide, tingling nerve endings fueled by little more than the raw force of a rampant, unfettered imagination. It ballooned through him and burst, ravaged him as he folded in half, drove him to hump his own pillow, rutting while still half caught in a sleepy haze where House stared back at him, the image seared on the backs of Wilson's eyelids. He sank his teeth into the back of his arm and growled around it, the rest of his body twitching beyond his control, toes curled, knees drawn in as he shuddered helplessly through it, shocked and appalled and so turned on he could barely think at all, much less process what was going on.

It tapered off and left him wrung out, panting and oddly bereft as he blinked around the dim room to verify that he was still very much alone in his bed. Random muscles ticked in its wake, his body glowing and too warm, flushed and sweaty with release. Wilson heaved in a deep breath, his heart thumping wildly in the rush of blood past his ears, and thumped his face into the mattress as he gradually turned into a gelatinous mush of limbs barely strung together with enough tendon and sinew to hold the shape of his body. Slowly, Wilson's thoughts percolated through a mist of endorphins until he approached something resembling his own mind. His respirations evened out to the point where a casual observer would have assumed that he had fallen back asleep, but rest was so far from Wilson's thoughts that it was a miracle he hadn't pinged off a few walls already.

"...oh..." Wilson sighed, partly in relief but more out of a sense of reluctant acceptance. Up until this rash of House-centric dreams – two constituted a rash, yes – Wilson hadn't even come close to a nocturnal emission since high school. There was something there; he couldn't deny that anymore without acknowledging that he was both a hypocrite and a moron. House did something to him – the thought of House naked and aroused did something for him. He would have to face that, and soon, because it wasn't liable to go away on its own.

* * *

Maybe if the dream hadn't so rudely woken him, Wilson would have thought better of leaving early enough to stop and make House breakfast. It wasn't that such a thing was unheard of for him; rather, House would know that something untoward was going down, and he would bend every single one of his not inconsiderable stalking skills to ferret out Wilson's true agenda. It would never occur to House that Wilson might not have an ulterior motive for making him breakfast, mainly because that just wouldn't happen.

Wilson crept into 221B on guilty feet, as if he were robbing the place instead of lugging in groceries. Thankfully, House was not sprawled out on the couch, so Wilson's soft thumps and squeaky soles didn't set off an awakening incident. Wilson balanced precariously against the wall, bags hanging from his wrists, to toe off his loafers, and then he scuffled his way into the kitchen, bypassing the hallway with an averted face that he felt screamed his newfound, inappropriate fantasies. And then, being the daft sort of fellow that he occasionally was, Wilson set his bags down on the counter, hesitated, and then crept back to the doorway. He stuck his head around the corner and blinked a few times, peering down the dim hall to House's open bedroom door, watching dust motes swirl in the residual air currents stirred up by Wilson's covert dash to the kitchen. He couldn't hear snoring, but House didn't typically snore all that loudly. And there was no evidence of activity down there in the depths of unit B, so…

Wilson sidestepped and straightened at the end of the hallway. He felt like a tiny child poised in the mouth of a big black scary cavern. Or like Monty Python's knights tramping past the carcasses of bunny-mauled men. His footsteps hushed in his socks, Wilson padded down to the open bedroom door and slowly peeked inside. Lanky limbs were strewn all over the bed, weaving through twisted sheets with a blanket hanging halfway to the floor and pillows piled at uneven intervals around the mattress. It was a miracle House slept at all, because judging by this mess, he didn't exactly settle much.

Emboldened by the sight of House lying dead to the world, Wilson rounded the door jamb and leaned against the wall to watch him sleep. He knew it was creepy; if House woke up and saw him there, it would freak him out, and then Wilson might be manipulated into explaining, and a whole _thing_ would ensue. And then they would have to talk about it, which wouldn't go well since they emphatically _did not _talk about things. Then Wilson would have to endure the awkwardness and the half-assed avoidance, and the uncomfortable lulls in babbling conversations until House started stealing his food again – House brand forgiveness. It sounded like such a bother. Wilson should leave and start breakfast, or better yet, prank House awake. Yeah, that could work.

Wilson remained perched against the wall, though, mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of House's shoulder blades as he breathed easily in his sleep. A soft slough of air stirred the sheet near his mouth, and from the sound of it, Wilson could tell that House was drooling just a little bit. It seemed a shame to even contemplate waking him; House hardly ever managed to catch enough quality rest, and he looked so comfortable for once. Wilson pushed off the wall and approached the bed, more curious than wary, until he could better see House's face where he had smooshed it against his forearm. He looked innocent. For a moment, he actually appeared adorably harmless. Wilson was touching before he could think better of it.

Somehow, the universe conspired to keep House asleep, even though he was normally the lightest sleeper known to man. He stirred under Wilson's hand, but barely, and when he settled back down, he sank deeper into the bedding, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. Wilson mimicked the expression as he trailed a few fingers lightly over House's bicep, then down to the back of his hand where he had curled his fingers lightly around the edge of a sheet. The faint rustling of House's limbs had stirred up the air around them, releasing his nighttime scent to waft toward Wilson's nostrils.

This experience took voyeurism to a whole new level in Wilson's book, but only after he caught himself inhaling to savor House's smell, did he manage to creep himself out. Wilson snatched his hand from House's arm and stumbled back several steps. He collided with a chair and nearly toppled heels over head, knocking over a stack of medical journals and sending a pile of laundry of questionable cleanliness careening to the floor. When Wilson finally staggered his way to a clumsy stop, House was staring at him from one slightly bloodshot eye, his face still pressed into his arm, supremely unhappy at the commotion.

"Um." Wilson fumbled his feet back under himself and grabbed at his neck before he simply trundled from the room. There was really nothing to say at that point.

Five minutes later, Wilson was occupying himself with a whisk and a bowl of frothy batter, and House had taken to stomping obnoxiously through the apartment, first to the bathroom, then to the living room, then back to the bathroom. Pipes clattered as he took the noisiest shower Wilson had ever heard, water slapping and god knew what else tapping and getting thrown around. A bare instant of silence followed the flight of a towel as it knocked something over on it's way to the hamper, and then House finally grumped and grumbled his way into the kitchen, proverbial storm clouds clapping thunder and doom over his head. He squinted at Wilson, clearly pissed to find himself awake, and then grunted, "Wilson."

"Hey, House."

House snuffed his annoyance at the chirper edge to Wilson's voice, then directed a bleary gaze at the coffee maker. With a murderous glance at Wilson's offensive presence, he hobbled toward it.

"That's not fresh," Wilson warned him; he hadn't gotten around to making a new pot yet.

House picked up the pot and held it in front of his face, grumbled incoherently at it, and then sniffed it. "Smells fine." His voice sounded like gravel getting pulverized under a steamroller. "You want some?"

Wilson quirked an eyebrow at him, then turned back to his batter. "Last time you said something smelled fine, I threw up in your sink."

"Lightweight." House poured some brackish liquid into a mug, frowned at the consistency, then stuck it in the microwave. "What did you do?"

Don't bite, eyes on the food, stay casual. "What are you talking about?"

"You're making special pancakes at seven in the morning on a work day. Ergo, you did something which you now feel guilty about, and you think that if you fill my tummy with delectable morsels of yummy, nutty, heavenly goodness, I won't cane you when you confess. So. What did you do?"

Wilson affected his most put-upon, exasperated demeanor and turned to face House, the batter bowl cradled in one arm, whisk embedded in lumpy yellow goop. "Why is everything a scheme with you? Is it so hard to believe that your friend might just stop by once in a while to do something nice for you?"

House squinted at him for a second. "Yes, since you're not getting anything out of it and the sorts of friends who do that surprise breakfast thing are usually the sorts of friends who are getting sex on the side. Because the surprise breakfast thing is a low-key romantic gesture that's easy to brush off in the event that a romantic advance is not appreciated. Everyone gets to save face. So either you're secretly hot for me, or you did something that's going to piss me off, which brings us back to: what did you do?"

Wilson squinted right back just because he knew that blatant mimickry annoyed House. "You really need to get a life," he replied, turning back to the counter. He shook his head to emphasize his disappointment at House's hare-brained analysis of an innocent good deed, but inside, butterflies were devouring Wilson's stomach lining. House didn't know, he couldn't know; this is just what House does, he looks for ludicrous motives (he's usually right about the ludicrous motives), and then he extrapolates ad absurdum (and House _knows_ that he's usually right about the ludicrous motives), and then he laughs when Wilson splutters and throws his hands up and storms off in a tizzy (because annoying Wilson lessens the boredom of any given day).

The microwave dinged and House forgot all about Wilson for the moment. With House's back turned, Wilson was free to let his gaze rove over House's form. Funny, but he had known the man for almost two decades, and he had never really _looked_ at him with anything other than a clinical eye. Even as purely platonic friends, there were things that Wilson thought he should have noticed: the subtle irregularity in the set of House's shoulders, a blatant souvenir worn by a man who spent more time on his feet than the average able-bodied person with half of his weight carried on his arm; the feathery softness, like goose down, at the crown of House's head where thick hair had thinned out to something more like baby fuzz, a reminder that life is cyclical, that all people eventually go back from whence they came; his weary stance, leaning against the counter with one hip cocked to dispense his weight onto a left leg that seemed to wobble more often than not, overworked as it was to compensate for the weak right; the way House sighed as he sipped delicately at freshly warmed coffee, just as much a simple pleasure as a tired affirmation of the fact that he was still here, plugging away at his not-quite-happy life, bored too often for a man with such a vibrant mind, dulled by drugs and pain that he didn't deserve.

Without turning, House mumbled, "Take a picture. It's less creepy."

Wilson twitched in surprise, but then he noticed that House could see him reflected in the window over the sink. He pursed his lips and turned away, momentarily at a loss for what to do. Thankfully, his hands busied themselves at pancakes on autopilot. Bowl, batter, skillet on the stove. Sizzle as batter dripped and spread in a perfect disk.

"Seriously," House said. "What's going on with you?"

Wilson glanced over his shoulder to find House still facing away, then went back to staring blankly at his pancake. "Who says something's going on?"

"You," House replied, his abruptness an obvious front. House didn't do talking, but he had apparently decided that a conversation was in order. In a seeming nonsequitor, House remarked, "You were touching me."

Wilson stopped breathing for a moment, then sought to cover it up by taking a series of measured breaths. Too even, of course; he knew that House would hear it and pick it up as an anomaly. A tell.

"In my bedroom." The clarification wasn't really necessary, but House had said it out loud anyway.

"You were sleeping." As if that justified what he had done – not that it was _wrong_, per se. It was certainly unusual, even for them. Wilson would have been happy to drop the whole thing and pretend it had never happened. That's what they were supposed to do – ignore every issue that arose between them and then act like nothing strange ever occurred. _Ever_. Vaguely, Wilson wondered how often they did that, and whether House had catalogued an extensive series of looks, words and casual touches that should not have come to pass between two straight friends.

"Wilson…"

Wilson winced at the low note of warning in House's tone. It wasn't a threat, but it was definitely something intolerant of Wilson's poor attempts at deflection. Somehow, that made Wilson bold. And kind of stupid. "Would you sleep with me?"

House choked on his coffee, and Wilson pivoted to catch a glimpse of him frozen with the edge of the cup pressed to his lips. House let a few drops dribble back into the cup, sucked the residual moisture off his lip, and then mumbled around the edge of the mug, "Excuse me?"

"I mean in theory," Wilson rushed to qualify. "You know. If you were into men, would you…" Wilson waved the spatula as if he were drawing cobwebs from the air. His voice scratched a little as he lamely finished, "Would you find me attractive?"

"Okay. Your midlife crisis is officially weirding me out."

Wilson groaned and snapped, "House."

"Um. I suppose, if I were into dudes, I might consider you aesthetically pleasing."

Wilson crinkled his nose and tossed House a dubious look. "Aesthetically pleasing," he echoed. "Like window dressings."

"You know, saying 'window dressings' instead of 'curtains' makes you sound gay." House held up his free hand to ward off Wilson's impending implosion. "Just saying. For all I know, that's the impression you're after now."

Wilson rolled his eyes and dug the spatula under the edges of the pancake. "Fine."

"What do you want me to say, Wilson?" House demanded. "That you're hot? That I'd totally tap that ass?"

"You can stop now. I get it."

"Get what? I don't even know what we're talking about."

Wilson flipped the pancake and then slapped the spatula down on the counter so that he could cross his arms and properly confront House. "Would you sleep with me?"

House flared his nostrils. "I just said – "

"I'm not talking theoretically this time."

House blinked at him, then eyed his coffee. "I just remembered – this coffee is like four days old. I think it turned."

"I'm serious."

It was comical, watching House fumble for some sort of response. Wilson so rarely rendered him speechless that he savored it for a few seconds. Then House balked, set his coffee cup down, and twisted to dig his wallet from his back pocket. "Here." House extended a business card.

"Um." Wilson accepted it and took in the lack of any writing, aside from a phone number. He tipped his head at House and twiddled the card at him. "What is this?"

"That's the agency I use." House pointed unnecessarily at the card pinched between Wilson's fingers. "I'm sure they can accommodate your experimental tendencies, and there's a new client discount."

Wilson narrowed his eyes and scrunched his face up to one side. "I'm not calling a hooker, House."

House shrugged. "Fine. Go bar fishing. Just don't come crying to me when you catch something."

That angered Wilson for some reason, as if he really believed that House could be so dense. "I don't want to have sex with a man, you dimwit. I want to have sex with you!"

"Yeah, see…no." House shook his head, adorably awkward as he backed into the sink to support himself. "Cuz last time I looked, I'm packing. So you _don't_ actually want to have sex with me."

Wilson flung his arms out and beseeched the smoke detector to knock some sense into one of them. When no booming voice offered him a way out, Wilson dropped his arms and regarded House, at a loss. "Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?"

House's cheek twitched. "What, suddenly being attracted to me? Yeah, I can see how that might suck for you."

"You know that's not how I meant it."

"Right," House drawled, unconvinced and completely, one hundred percent perplexed. "So, then." He hooked his index finger at the floor even though the floor had nothing to do with anything. "That would make this the romantic gesture sort of breakfast, rather than the guilt tripping kind." He sucked on the inside of his cheek for a moment, his gaze flickering off into a corner, and then he started as he came back to himself. "I have a case."

"What?" Wilson furrowed his brow as he watched House set the mostly full coffee cup in the sink. "Wait, no you don't."

House paused to spin awkwardly in a circle as he retreated from the kitchen. "It's a side job thing. You know. Under the table." He grimaced at his choice in words and haltingly clarified, "In a strictly euphemistic, PG-13 kind of way." His eyes remained fixed in space as he completed his awkward three-hundred-sixty degree pivot.

"You don't take cases on the side," Wilson called after him.

"I owe some guy a favor, or…something." House flapped a hand over his shoulder. "Whatever makes you shut up."

Wilson just stood in the kitchen and watched House beat a hasty retreat from his own apartment. The pancake started to burn behind him, which set off the smoke detector, which made Wilson groan in exasperation. He glared up at the offensive thing and bitterly grumbled, "_Now_ you talk to me."

* * *

"Good morning, Doctor Wilson."

Wilson lifted his eyes from his pink message slips but kept his head bowed, piercing Cuddy with an unforgiving glare. He imagined little twin fires burning in the pits of his pupils.

"Wow," Cuddy remarked. "House pee in your oatmeal?"

Wilson screwed his mouth up to one side to display his lack of amusement. "You know that feed-him-and-strip thing you recommended?" He gave her a sickeningly wide, sarcastic smile, dropping his voice to a lower register. "Didn't turn out so well."

Cuddy blinked, balked, then raised both eyebrows. "I can see you're having a bad day." She tried to smile sympathetically, settled for a skittish pinched look, and slowly turned away as if leaving too quickly might draw too much of Wilson's attention.

"Thanks for your concern," Wilson called after her retreating back.

Over her shoulder, Cuddy replied, "Don't mention it."

Wilson barely made it to his office before House banged his way in via the balcony. He limped inside like he owned the place, but his eyes skimmed over everything except Wilson as he made his way to the couch and plopped down, arms spread over the back. A few tense moments passed in awkward silence, and then Wilson prodded, "House?"

"It's Friday." House drummed his fingers on the taut leather, still avoiding Wilson's gaze, twitching his cheeks to let off an abundance of energy.

"Um." Wilson's hand made its way to his neck and he rubbed at his cervical vertebrae. "Shabbat shalom?"

"You still coming over tonight?"

Wilson let out a nervous breath, wondering how long the uncomfortable atmosphere would interfere with their friendship. "Do you want me to?"

House bobbed his head a few times, then replied, "Yeah, okay."

"Okay," Wilson echoed. "Usual time?"

"Right. Sure." House's glance edged toward Wilson, faltered, then wandered off again. "Okay." He thumped his cane on the floor, looked at a file cabinet, then shoved himself to his feet.

Wilson tipped his head as House exited without another word, then sucked in a deep breath to redirect his attention to the work piled on his desk. This…was going to suck. And not in the fun way. He wished he had never opened his big fat mouth, but it had honestly never occurred to him, mired in naiveté and past conquests as he was, that House would turn him down because nobody turned him down. Of course, he had never gone after another man before, so… Wilson cursed himself for twelve kinds of fool and then tried to get on with his day.

At noon, House wrecked his way into Wilson's office again, stared at him intently enough to make Wilson fidget in his seat, then rushed out again without closing the door. Less than a minute later, he was back, usurping a visitor chair with abrupt, angry movements. Wilson looked at him, expectant, then gestured with his pen. "What do you want?"

"You suck."

"Thanks. Back atcha." Wilson shook his head and bent to his files. In his periphery, House twiddled his thumbs and bounced his cane around, tapped the chair arm a few times, then shot to his feet as if he had been poised on a springboard. Wilson rolled his eyes and dropped his head into his hands with a sigh, pen nub poking his ear. "What, House? What do you want to say?"

House fumed impotently from his designated section of carpet, then hopped toward Wilson to demand, "Why the hell did you have to go and ask me to have sex with you?"

Wilson gave an exaggerated blink, then refocused his eyes over House's shoulder. "I think your team…needs you. For something."

"What?" House straightened and twisted to look at the door, then flared his nostrils. "I'm busy."

Kutner gave an emphatic nod and then backed nervously from the room. "Right. Um. Patient's got a rectal bleed. But, you know. It can wait." Then he sort of half-bowed, or inclined his head, or something comically deferential, and made himself scarce.

Wilson glared at House. "Shut the door next time, will you?"

"Hey, I'm not the one propositioning me for sex."

"But if you could, then nothing I could say would stop you. Right?"

"Ri – wait." House's eyes meandered ceilingward, and then he shook himself. "Stop that."

Wilson smirked, which made House glower harder.

"I said stop that!"

"House, go do your job. I'll bring pizza with me tonight."

House shuffled in place, probably wondering how he had lost control of the conversation. Warily, he said, "Don't think you can buy your way into my pants with second rate takeout."

"I'll get beer too."

"I'm not that easy. You have to woo me."

"Actually, I could probably charge you for my services. It's nothing you're not used to, after all."

House scowled at the lack of effect his ire was having on Wilson. "Cocky doesn't suit you."

"Oh, stop. You know you like it." Wilson affected a flirty smile to go with that.

"Uh…huh." House regarded him carefully, tongue pressing the inside of one cheek, and then he sidled his way to the door. "I'm still not sleeping with you." Wilson caught a hint of something incongruous on House's face, though, and it made him grin, which spooked House right out into the hallway. "I'm not!" He called back. "You're too well circulated for my tastes." Then he scuttled out of sight, as much as a gimp could scuttle.

Wilson leaned over his desk to shout, "You keep telling yourself that, House."

Diminishing cane-thumps answered that one.

* * *

The rest of Wilson's day passed in a blur, oscillating from numb to excited, then to panicked and back again. He always flirted with House – it was a give in of their friendship that they traded innuendo and messed around with each other's heads. And now, suddenly, there was a serious aspect to it that Wilson quite frankly realized he didn't know how to handle. What if House changed his mind? What if he said yes? Well, if he said yes, then…then they would probably have sex. They would…have sex. They'd…have…sex…

By the time Wilson made it to House's flat, he was a twitchy, nervous wreck. He had beer but no food because his stomach roiled as if that nasty spoiled shrimp were still working through him. This was probably a very bad idea. Or…something. Just being here was fine, but some part of his ideas had to be a bad idea because he felt like an overachieving soccer mom had just run him over with a shopping cart: maimed but still walking.

He had pretty much decided that he had to come clean about the video, because if House found out on his own, it would probably spell an epic disaster. And then they had to get a few things straight about Wilson's intentions, which were admittedly not straight. And sordid and shallow. Wilson pressed his forehead to his car window and gazed up at House's apartment, silently reassuring himself that nothing had to change, that it was just an experiment – a meaningless fantasy. Just as it had been for House and Crandall. Just two close friends satisfying a harmless bit of curiosity, minus the more lithe and attractive third party. Actually, that part of it disturbed Wilson more than the thought of the physical coupling; he didn't have those sorts of feelings for House, and he was certain that House didn't feel romantically towards him either. Regardless of that, casual sex between them felt wrong somehow; Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that he should be feeling something beyond carnal lust – that it should mean something for them to sleep together.

Wilson rolled his eyes at his own sappiness and climbed from the car with his arms full of edible offerings. Stupid House, making a stupid video of himself having stupid sex. Hot stupid sex, granted. Damn him, anyway.

Wilson's overwrought brain teemed with the stark need to confess and conquer, a mental state exacerbated by too little rest and too many imaginative wanderings. He was determined to put an end to this now, one way or another, come hell or high water. By the time he stepped into House's foyer, he felt sick, poised outside the green door labeled with a golden B, listening to the soft strains of a nocturne peeling through the murky illumination of the building hallway. Wilson stared at the painted surface in front of him and tried to think of any scenario where this ended well for both of them.

Early hour aside, Wilson was exhausted, at least mentally. He had achieved exactly one sleep cycle the night before, and that had ended…abruptly, to say the least. The warmth of his bedroom called to him from the other side of the suburbs, but no matter how this all went down, Wilson didn't bother to kid himself about his prospects for a restful night. His own disappointment at the incomplete (stupid) film surprised and dismayed him, but he had come to terms with that already. More or less. Strangely enough, it was the violation of House's privacy that bothered Wilson now; he felt like he had murdered someone rather than merely stolen an old VHS. And it certainly felt like some sort of back-asswards crime to keep getting off to thoughts of him while House blundered on all wide-eyes and bushy-tailed, getting nothing from this whole sordid affair.

Wilson needed to sleep something fierce; he couldn't even string two thoughts together anymore.

A rap of knuckles on hardwood put an end to the tinkle of soft piano chords. House didn't yell for him to come in, though, or use his key; Wilson must not have sounded like himself, even in knocks, because House stumped in a corner somewhere beyond the door and snapped, "Fine! No more piano, you jerk. Now get lost."

Wilson snickered under his breath. "House, it's just me."

A heartbeat of silence, and then House's unique gait measured a lopsided trail to the door. The lock disengaged and House cracked it open as if he needed to verify that Wilson accompanied that voice. After scanning Wilson from head to foot, he griped, "Thought you were that old fart from upstairs. You knocked funny." Then he stood aside and held the door wide for Wilson to enter.

As he breezed past House, Wilson returned, "You have my humblest apologies. I'll try to beat wood more seriously in the future."

House shut the door, paused facing it, then snorted. "Good one." He offered Wilson an affectionate smile in passing as he limped off toward the kitchen, as if the emotion were a sheepish, childish impulse and House wanted to downplay it, perhaps render it into the realm of afterthoughts where people would be less likely to realize what he had done. Wilson wondered why it was that a crude joke garnered fondness from House, while displays of genuine affection made him bristle like a puffer fish. Over his shoulder, House called, "Beer?"

"Brought your kind," Wilson replied, though as he shrugged off his coat, he wondered if he should drink right now.

House stopped in front of the fridge to fix a speculative gaze on Wilson. "You have that look on your face."

Wilson narrowed his eyes, hands shoved deep in his pockets, beer discarded on the desk, and indignantly squawked, "What look?"

"The impending talk look," House replied, perhaps slightly annoyed. "What did I do now?"

Wilson blinked at him, then lowered his eyes with a sigh. "Nothing, House. I... Here." Wilson fumbled the VHS tape from his coat pocket, then left the coat folded over the back of the desk chair.

House hobbled forward a few steps, hand outstretched. "What's this?"

"Something I stole from you."

"You stole something from me?" Contrary to expectations, House seemed downright excited by this. "Took you long enough, though I expected articles of my clothing, considering your proclivities lately. But I think you missed the whole point of stealing things. You're supposed to not fess up until the wronged party notices, and even then, you deny everyth...ing..." House had finally registered the label on the tape. "Erm."

Wilson's stomach sank in time with the way House's grin unraveled at the edges. "I swear I didn't know what it was when I found it. I thought I'd get a few laughs – you giving some cliché school presentation, or singing 'I'm a little teapot' drunk at a frat party." Wilson kept flapping his hands as if gestures could render himself innocent of wrongdoing.

House checked over the tape without a word, no doubt looking at the reels, then observed, "You watched it."

Wilson grimaced, one hand already latched inexorably to the back of his neck. "I plead the fifth."

"All of it."

Like a man resigned to facing the firing squad, Wilson shrugged and informed him, "You ran out of tape, you know."

"Figured we did." House sounded flat.

"Yeah," Wilson confirmed needlessly. "Right before you…um…" He made a twiddle-finger gesture that in no way conveyed the idea of an orgasm, but the message got across.

"Huh. Then you missed the part where she lifted my wallet on the way out." House offered a mistimed sarcastic snort in conjunction with the forced levity. Yeah, he was pissed – too pissed to actually react at all. "At least this explains why you've been weird lately. How long have you had it?"

"About a week." Wilson let his eyes flicker off at random, fingers digging into cervical vertebrae. He had known House would get mad, perhaps blow his top, but somehow, seeing it, Wilson realized that he hadn't actually planned for it. And the dark, brooding anger always threw him off to begin with; House didn't do reserved very often, but when he did, it never failed to make Wilson squirm inside his own skin. "Um..."

"Well, good one." House gave an unconvincing smile. "You totally had me sold."

Wilson shook his head a fraction. "What?"

"All the come-ons. Did you guys take bets on whether or not I'd bite?"

Wilson's gaze flew back to him, his hand slowing on his neck. "No," he hurried to say, incredulous. It was a reasonable assumption for House to make, though. Sort of. "No one else knows, House. I swear." Except Cuddy, but he sensed that knowing that would merely serve to further incense House.

"Really." House frowned at him doubtfully, then turned pensive. "Then…if it's not a prank, why are you doing this?"

House sounded genuinely confused, but Wilson thought he could detect a hint of cautious hope. "Well, I, um…I was curious, and…I was hoping to see the…the finish." Wilson tried to smile but it felt like melted plastic on his face.

House stared at him dumbly, then scowled. "I'm not a twenty-something college kid anymore, Wilson." He threw in an extra glare to punctuate that as he hobbled around to yank open the closet door.

Wilson watched with half an eye as House crammed the tape inside at random. "I don't think that makes any sort of difference to me."

House paused to glance over shoulder, his entire body set in diagnostic mode, to no avail.

"Look," Wilson sighed, shuffling closer but not close enough to touch. House backed up anyway. "I've been freaking out over this for a week already. I mean, it's you, House."

"How flattering."

"Shut up," Wilson snapped, edgy. "I know it's insane, but I suddenly find myself…wanting…"

"I'd freak out over wanting me too."

Wilson dropped his arms and groaned at the floor. "Stop putting words in my mouth, jackass. I liked it. I liked watching you. It was…different, to quote you."

A few tense seconds crawled by, and Wilson bit the bullet, peeling his eyes from the wood at his feet to gauge House's reaction. House snorted in amusement, but the sound carried a dark edge that set Wilson's insides scurrying for cover. "It's just a phase."

"I know," Wilson replied, which was true. He knew damn well that his fascination wouldn't last; it never did. House knew him, so he would surely understand Wilson's logic. "And that's why I'm asking you." He gave a lopsided shrug and a bashful smile, which he knew from experience tended to melt even the impervious House. "I trust you for the most part, and I figure this way, we both get something out of it. I can satisfy my curiosity, you can get laid without draining your bank account, and when it's over, no one gets hurt."

"Really." House just stood there staring at him, his face a pinched study in inscrutability. Maybe he was searching for tells, for evidence that Wilson had lied and this was all a joke. More likely, he was weighing the pros and cons of the proposal. After an interminable minute, he looked away and sucked in a breath that seemed incongruously fatalistic for its weight and care. Without meeting Wilson's eyes, he shifted his feet, appearing more resigned than anything else. "Go home and sleep it off, Wilson."

Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it without saying a word. In all of his glorious, hormonally-driven blindness, he hadn't actually considered the possibility that House would turn him down. It had crossed his mind, yes, but not as a credible outcome, not really. He took a second to try to remember the last time he had solicited someone only to be turned down, and it made him at once proud and ashamed to realize that he couldn't think of a single instance in recent memory. House was still standing there, waiting for Wilson to do something, say something, leave, shrug and go after the pizza… Wilson just blinked his confusion, which was really pathetic under the circumstances. "I don't get it."

House raised one eyebrow, drawing a cheekbone up in the process. "Are you serious?" At Wilson's halting nod, House rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll clarify." He set his cane hard against the floor, leaned forward an inch or so, and carefully intoned, "I do not want to have sex with you."

Wilson gaped at the blatant refusal, eyes wide and rounded. Then he sputtered, "But…why? I know you're interested." Wilson stuck a finger in his face for no reason other than it made him feel like he was transferring blame for this situation. "You flirt with me all the time. You stare at me, and just now, you hesitated – I saw it. I know you're interested."

House puffed out a derisive breath as he leaned back properly on his feet. "You are really something else. You know that?"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"Why? Would that sooth your poor broken ego?" House taunted. "Jimmy Wilson needs to be wanted. It just doesn't compute, does it. Getting rejected. I bet that hasn't happened to you since grade school."

"Stop insulting me and give me a reason," Wilson snapped. "It's not like it would matter if we slept together. It's not like we wouldn't enjoy it."

"Yeah, that's right. Why would it matter? Silly me." House scowled at him, his anger disproportionate, in Wilson's opinion, to the situation. It wasn't like Wilson had done anything to him; they were just talking. "You know, contrary to popular belief, not everyone relishes the thought of getting mauled by you."

"Mauled?" Wilson repeated, incredulous. "I don't maul people, you ass! And I don't want to maul you – I want to sleep with you. You…You're turning down an opportunity to have someone fawn over you, and I know the thought appeals to you – I can see it in your face right now." He couldn't see anything, actually, but he figured it had to be there, and he had bluffed House a dozen times before. "Forgive me if your response doesn't make sense to me."

House stared at him for a second, then jabbed a finger at his nose. "Don't," he growled.

"Don't what?" Wilson demanded.

"That! Just stop it, Wilson."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Like you don't know, you fucking prick. You just said – " House bared his teeth, probably as a prelude to finishing his sentence, but he clamped his mouth shut a moment later. "Leave."

Wilson's stomach actually plummeted at that. "What?"

"I can't believe you would – I know you're a manipulative bastard, but you – did you think I wouldn't notice what you're doing?"

Wilson's insides lurched to see the outrage on House's face, and he was too stunned by the blatant emotion where there should only be aloof impassivity to puzzle out what the hell had set him off. "I'm not doing anything. I'm…sorry? I shouldn't have taken the tape, not after I figured out what it was, but it's not like you would have done differently."

House advanced on him, but he stopped short of actual contact, fumed for a moment, and settled for furiously pointing at the front door. "Just go, Wilson." When Wilson simply stood there, stunned at the dismissal, House bellowed, "Get out!"

Wilson flinched as a rush of hot breath billowed past his face. He could feel his heart stutter in his chest as his eyes flickered over random portions of the kitchen and hallway past House's shoulder, and then he shook his head, unable to comprehend this unexpected turn. "But…I don't…"

House stuck his face right up in Wilson's, until Wilson had no choice but to meet his eyes as he leaned back. "I am not your fucking experiment," House hissed. "Did you really think that shit would work on me? I'm not some pathetic nurse you can seduce and play with when you're bored or too lazy to go out and hook a proper lay – just get out!"

Wilson's lips parted in shock. "No! That's not it – House, I wouldn't – This isn't a pity fuck," he said, his voice pleading more than his actual words for House to look past his anger long enough to listen. "House, I just meant…I need to know. That's all. I just need to know if I'm…if I'd like that, and I thought you'd…" He trailed off, helpless to put any of it into words when he wasn't even sure what topic they were arguing over.

"You thought I'd jump at the chance to get some free sex?" House finished for him, contempt warring with the wounded shadow in his features. The edge of House's mouth lifted in a forced scoff. The true purpose obscured by that expression of contempt couldn't eek past the front that he put up.

Wilson's head was shaking before any words could trickle into his consciousness. "I wasn't going to say that."

House gave a derisive snort and turned his back. The implication to get lost was abundantly, painfully clear.

Wilson blinked back an unfamiliar coldness at the silence pervading the living room, and then he finally obtained sense enough to decipher the exact brand of hurt that had glared back at him from the rims of shockingly blue eyes. "Oh my god. You…oh, shit. House, I swear, I had no idea you felt that way."

A bitter snort sounded from House's quarter. "Like hell you didn't."

"House – "

Without turning, House bellowed, "Leave!"

Wilson flinched at the sharp clap of his voice as it hit the walls and rebounded, his hands raised in ambiguous self defense. "House, please. We can talk about it. Let me apologize."

House shook his head, his whole frame trembling, skin tinged pink in fury, and perhaps in something else that was less defined. "I want you out of my house."

A suffocating weight settled in behind Wilson's breastbone. House ignored him when Wilson croaked out the syllable of his name, and that hurt worse than anything Wilson had felt before. His eyes found the rubber tip of House's cane and followed it to a white-knuckled hand that shook with some poorly expressed and yet rampant emotion. That was all he could take. Wilson stumbled backwards, his fingers slipping as he grabbed for the handle of his briefcase. He left his coat because it was too far away, and then he dashed out the door.

All Wilson could hear were his own footsteps clacking like gunshots on the sidewalk, and a dull rush of white noise brought on by the spike in his blood pressure and the terrible ache in his chest. He was too shaken to do much aside from fumble his way into his car and drag the door shut, and then he gripped the steering wheel, numb and cold, his respirations rapid and shallow past the pressure in his head. …I had no idea you felt that way. The about me had remained unspoken, but it was so obvious, and God, that…hurt. Just knowing what House must have thought when Wilson told him point blank that it wouldn't mean anything, basically said that he intended to use House to get off, to satisfy some perverted sense of curiosity. House had probably dared to hope upon hearing that Wilson got turned on watching him, but then…then Wilson had to go and smack him down, and…

Wilson tried to get his breathing under control, but he couldn't seem to draw enough air. He had ruined it. The whole friendship, in one fell swoop. Gone. He had actually made House hate him – he had seen it in the glittery depth of blue the last time House had deigned to look at him. Such fury, and all because of his stupid libido, and Jesus, why did Wilson's chest hurt so much? This wasn't normal. He bent forward over the steering wheel and tried to will the black spots from his field of vision, but all he could do was wheeze out a nonspecific syllable of pain and paw at his heart. The tightness in his chest increased, squeezing the life out of him, and he gasped teetering on the edge of consciousness, his heart ramming against his breastbone so hard he could feel it under his hand.

A shadow fell over the driver's seat but Wilson couldn't manage to pick his head up off the steering wheel. He heard his name, querulous and faraway like a thump on a hollow section of drywall. The sharp tap on the window didn't even register in his conscious mind, and then the car door swished open and Wilson heard House talking to him, his upper body pushed into the car to crowd Wilson in his seat.

Wilson tried to explain, but he could only manage a strangled wheeze and the droll proclamation of, "…ow…" His hand spasmodically clutching at his chest probably tipped House off to the rest of it, but the darkness encroaching on his vision left House's features blotched and blurry.

"Wilson, breathe." House splayed a hand on his chest and shoved him upright in his seat, and then Wilson felt cool fingers fumbling at his tie and shirt buttons. Fingers that wouldn't coordinate, and hands that shook so hard Wilson could feel it when he covered one of them with his own. House batted his hand out of the way without returning the clasp, and Wilson heard him say doctorly things like angina and tachycardia before the dull ache and throb in his chest overwhelmed him, and he blessedly passed out.

--TBC


End file.
